


The Black Widow

by Iwovepizza



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced Prostitution, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mithridatism, Murder, Poison, Porn With Plot, Temptress Patroclus, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 63,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwovepizza/pseuds/Iwovepizza
Summary: Mithridatism (n.)[mith-ri-dey-tiz-uhm]:The practice of protecting oneself against a poison by gradually self-administering non-lethal amounts.-Patroclus' life has been nothing but misery.Sold off for gold and protection by traitorous relatives, Patroclus has spent his days in the brothel "Elysium" serving countless clients and feeling completely and utterly alone.That is, until a golden warrior on his way to Troy rents him out for a day. Instead of demanding, he's patient. Instead of cruel, he’s kind, but their time together is short.Determined to return to the only man he's ever loved, Patroclus is willing to do whatever it takes to get out of Elysium, even if it means turning his own body into a poisonous weapon.After all, what's a widow without his venom?(Author’s note: Sorry about the long updates!  Chapters are VERY long and take a while to write and edit!)





	1. The Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Graphic depictions of rape, drugging, physical abuse

**I.**

THE WEB

-

 

Patroclus knew repentance the moment he killed that boy on the rocks.

            “Repent!” the priest cried as he and his father knelt by the altar and sacrificed countless peace offerings to the gods so they wouldn't smite Patroclus for his trespass.

            “Repent,” his father growled every night before he slept, and he would kneel at the foot of his bed and pray so hard the veins in his forehead popped and his tears turned to ashes on his cheeks.

            “Repent, repent, repent,” he repeated to himself again and again as he holed up in his room to spend his days worshipping stone gods he’d never seen or heard, who’d never offered him anything but cold detachment.

            It didn’t take long for Patroclus to grow weary of it. He was always praying, always groveling, always reminding himself time and time again of what he did wrong, and yet several years later he was still expected to pray.

            He was sixteen now. A man.

            Awful, sinful thoughts came to him as he slept. Was a boy who wasn’t even kind to him worth all of this praying? All of this grief? Surely a mistake he made as a boy could be forgiven?

            He didn't repent for these thoughts. He assumed that because he kept them to himself, they didn’t count.

            But the moment the kingdom’s council all turned to him with eyes like scarabs and bellowed, “Exile!” he realized that they _did_ count.

            His father was cold and cruel, but he wasn’t evil. He’d been planning on giving Patroclus to King Peleus from Phthia, who would give him a home in exile in exchange for a hefty amount of compensation, but a distant cousin had swooped in at the last moment to offer to take in Patroclus for free, no gold required.

            Menoetius had pounced on the offer, not only because of the money he would save, but because he thought his son would be better off in the hands of a relative than of a stranger.

Patroclus had been thankful at first, thankful for his father’s mercy despite how this cousin was just as unfamiliar as King Peleus, but he’d had hope, then. He’d trusted his father’s judgement, and he knew that, deep down, Menoetius had thought his son would be safe with his family, however distant.

            The trip to the cousin’s house had gone well enough, although Patroclus didn’t talk much, too shell-shocked by his exile and the prospect of spending the rest of his life nameless and alone to offer up much conversation to his chatty relative, who filled the silence well enough with her banter.

            As soon as they arrived at their home—a decent-sized dwelling not much smaller than Menoetius’ palace—Patroclus got a bad feeling.

            The guards took his luggage and he let them, unknowing of how they were throwing it all into a bonfire they’d stoked outside for this exact purpose, and the servants whispered as he passed, their eyes glittering like the scales of serpents.

            Patroclus followed his cousin willingly, like an eager lamb being guided to slaughter, and met with his relative’s husband, the lord of the house whose name he didn't remember but he wished he could so he could curse him properly.

            He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, almost like his father despite them not being related by blood, and his smile was crooked like a crack in the earth.

            Patroclus wondered if he’d been more focused in that moment, more aware of what was going on around him instead of brooding over the past and what he could’ve done to change it, this never would’ve happened.

            But time, like actions, can never be taken back, only made up for.

            Before Patroclus could even think, he was in chains and being dragged out of the house. His mouth gaped in a silent scream that never reached his lips. His head was foggy, and he remembered the bread his cousin had given him tasting odd on his tongue, though he’d been made so ravenous by the summer sun that he’d gobbled it up without a second thought.

            There was a wagon waiting outside, having gotten there sometime between Patroclus’ arrival and his tour through the house, pulled by two black stallions and commandeered by three ugly brutes with crooked noses and scar-torn skin.

            “This is him? The son of the king?” one of them grunted in a thick dialect that Patroclus didn’t recognize.

            His knees buckled, and the guards caught him when he swooned, his eyes rolling back into his head. His head felt like it was filled with cloth.

            “It is.” His cousin’s voice trembled as she held up Patroclus’ crown, which Patroclus was supposed to throw into the fire that night as a ceremonial relinquishment of his prince-hood. “You promise to leave us alone now?”

            “You have our word. And word from the boss.”

            “And the money?”

            “You get six thousand.”

            He balked. “You promised eighty-five hundred.”

            “Six. Take it or leave it.”

            Patroclus’ stomach sank when the couple reluctantly nodded and money was exchanged. He tried to resist as the three men pulled him into the wagon, but they were incredibly strong and whatever his relative had given him was making him even weaker than he already was.

            They rode for weeks, masquerading Patroclus as a slave. His father had always been ashamed of him, urging him to stay hidden away from the public eye the moment word got out about the murder, so there wasn’t anyone who recognized him.

            They allowed him frequent bathroom breaks and kept him clean, but they forced him to eat an exorbitant amount of food, and that in itself was misery.

            “He’s still too thin,” one of them—Brutus, he believed—grunted as Patroclus choked down his fourth helping under their stern gazes, groaning softly when it settled like a rock in his stomach. “Needs a little meat on his bones. Something to hold, at least.”

            “Boss won’t take him if he ain’t in mint condition,” his comrade agreed. Patroclus had paused, gasping for air as bile rose up in his throat. “Hey, did we say you can stop eating?”

            A tear slipped down Patroclus’ cheek, and all it took was a few more bites before he vomited over the side of the cart, coughing and spluttering and trying to choke the food back because he knew they would feed him more later to try and make up for what he’d lost.

            “I’m sorry,” he rasped around his burning throat, trembling. “I tried. I tried to keep it down.”

            He yelped when Brutus slapped him across the face, cradling his cheek in his palm and slumping against the side of the wagon.

            “Need me to stop?” the third asked from the driver’s seat. He had a whip in hand for the horses, but Patroclus knew he could just as easily use it on him.

            They didn’t seem to be keen on leaving marks, though, always talking about how he had to be perfect when they presented him to this so-called boss.

            Every night he slept uneasily under the light of the stars while the men slept in shifts; one would doze while the other two kept the exhausted horses going and guarded Patroclus, though there was little he could do while he was in chains.

            _Are they going to sell me into the labor camps?_ he thought as the wagon bumped and rattled along the dirt path. _Is that why they want me fattened up like some sort of sacrificial animal?_

            He’d only heard stories of these instances; of young people snatched from their homes and sold off, never to be seen again and dying from starvation and overwork. It was funny how he thought that such a thing could never happen to him.  

            By the time they reached their destination, Patroclus was too exhausted to be afraid.

            The city was packed full to bursting with people carrying baskets, harking their wares from stands, and reaching from their windows to hang clothes up to dry. Wagons rattled past as stray dogs searched for scraps and children played dice and discus, weaving through the throngs of people and crying out in glee.

            It was a nice community, a place that Patroclus had never himself witnessed without a royal escort to estrange him from all of the festivities.  

            He was just starting to enjoy himself, taking in the beautiful morning and the buzz of chattering voices in the air, when he realized that the crowds were thinning out, dissipating as Brutus steered the horses onto little-traveled side streets and backways.

            The women and children disappeared, replaced by haggard men with eyes like razors and teeth like stones. There was no laughing or playing here, no hustle and bustle of families.

            A chill went down his spine at the sight of the cracked and crumbling buildings crowding them on either side, and one of Brutus’ cronies kept his hand clamped down on Patroclus’ shoulder in case he got any ideas and tried to make a break for it.

            The wagon’s wheels clattered on the cobblestones, the horse’s hooves sounding like ticking clocks, and Patroclus exhaled raggedly when they pulled in front of a sizable building at the end of a one-way street.

            ELYSIUM.

            That one word, painted in looping red script above the door, made Patroclus’ blood turn to ice in his veins.

            WE GOT BOYS! WE GOT GIRLS!

            No, this couldn’t be happening. Surely his cousin wasn’t so cruel as to sell him off to a…to a…

            PAY BY THE HALF-HOUR

            Patroclus screeched, thrashing when Brutus and the two others grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the cart kicking and screaming.

            He clawed at their faces and kicked at their ankles, and though they scowled and grunted, they were relentless. Patroclus was no match for them.

            _If you let them bring you through those doors, you’re never going to step out of there again,_ a voice in his head whispered.

            He somehow managed to struggle harder, wrenching himself free for split second before he was seized once more.

            “No! No!” he cried, tears running hot down his face. He was in hysterics at this point. “Don’t do this! Don’t—”

            Brutus slapped him hard, making his head spin, and his split-second of weakness gave them enough time to drag him the rest of the way and haul him across the threshold.

            The stench of honey and lavender suffocated him like gnarled hands, and he hacked on coughs, struggling to get enough air in and out as his heart flew fast and heavy against his ribcage.

            Brutus and the other two men hustled him through an empty waiting room that was packed full of benches and decorated with provocative paintings, and Patroclus jerked back in a futile attempt at resistance, screaming and snapping at his captors.

            “Stupid whore,” one of them muttered under his breath, squeezing his arm so hard he thought the bone would snap.

            Patroclus had never been called a whore before. He thought back to the palace, back to the dull-eyed servant girls and the way the men of the court would whisper about them.

            “Bring him to the White Room,” Brutus ordered. “He’s not gonna sit still in the bedroom.”

            They shoved him down one of the two halls branching off of the waiting room. It was lined with numbered doors on either side, and many of them opened up a crack so curious eyes could watch as he passed. He caught a glimpse of a mousy-haired boy who was no older than he and a blonde woman that could’ve been a grandmother.

            He tried to meet their gazes, but they would never look at him directly.

            They brought him to the door all the way at the end. It was unmarked save for a white star painted on the door, and Patroclus whimpered as he stumbled across the threshold with Brutus and his men close behind.

            He swallowed hard when they closed the door behind them, trapping him inside like a dog in a fighting rink. He was trembling so hard that his chains rattled.

            The room was small, almost claustrophobic. There was an odd contraption of wood and rope in the center of it, and the walls were painted a stark white, though it was cracked and peeling in places. There were no windows.

             “Don’t touch me,” he hissed when they advanced on him, taking two steps back for every step they took forward. “Stay away.”

            “Shut the fuck up,” Brutus growled. Patroclus had given him a black eye sometime between the wagon and now, and one of his lackeys had blood trickling from his nose, though any satisfaction Patroclus could’ve felt was completely eclipsed by fear.

            They descended upon him, and he could only shout helplessly as they tore his clothes apart and cut them from his body, throwing them off to the side like trash. He felt like a caged animal, like one of those beasts from the African lands to the south that were displayed in the circus shows.

            He lashed out, but Brutus seized his arm while his comrades made a move for his other flailing limbs. No matter how hard he hit or how loudly he screamed, they still managed to haul him up onto the weird contraption.

            “No!” Patroclus cried as Brutus smacked his head against the surface, tying him down by the neck using one of the ropes.

            He tried to squirm out of it, but it was too tight and chafed his skin raw.

            His hands were tied down on either side of his head, and he scrabbled at the wood with his fingernails, only to realize that those who’d been tied down before him seemed to have had the same idea, scratch marks peppering the surface in a grisly display.

            By the time they’d tied him down completely, he was almost in a position of prayer, his top half pressed against the contraption and his bottom half held up by his knees. If he tried to wriggle into a less compromising position, the ropes grated his flesh like knives.

            “Stay here. Don’t try to escape. You won't succeed,” Brutus growled when they observed their handiwork and concluded that their job was done.

            And with that, they were gone.

            He kneeled there on the contraption, exposed and shell-shocked to the marrow. The air caressed his bare skin hungrily like a set of greedy hands, and tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes.

            They were cowardly tears that would shame his father, but he didn’t care. He was so afraid.

            _You’re going to die._

That fact had just dawned on him when the door latch jiggled and someone stepped inside. Patroclus couldn’t turn to see him, but he tensed all over at his heavy tread and breath. Definitely another man.

            “Hello, Patroclus.”

            A shiver went down his spine. He was weeping in earnest now, and he shifted restlessly in his confines.

            “I want to go home,” Patroclus rasped, even though he knew it was a weak thing to say. He sounded like a child. “I don’t want to be here.”

            “None of them ever do.” The man’s voice was a soft baritone, and Patroclus jerked when cold fingertips skimmed over his flank.

            “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, though it sounded more like a plea than an order.

            The man chuckled, coming around to stand in front of him, and Patroclus craned his neck to get a good look. He was older, boasting a full beard and silver eyes, and his skin was marked by a warrior’s scars.

            “This is very new to you, no?”

            Patroclus exhaled raggedly, his eyes fluttering. He wasn’t ready.

            _Not like this,_ he begged Aphrodite and Eros and any other god of love or lust he could think of. _Please, I don’t want it to be like this. I have repented so hard for my sins. Please protect me. Please keep me safe._

But it was clear that, here in this White Room, the gods couldn't hear him.

            “You seem to have an idea of what’s going to go down, and I promise you that I want it to be as easy for you as possible. If you cooperate, your life can be good here. If you don’t, well…people who don’t cooperate don’t stay rebellious for long. Most of them wind up in this room instead of in a comfy bed.”

            Patroclus squirmed in his confines, yelping when the rope on his right ankle tore open his skin and drew blood. He could feel it trickling down his calf.  

            “Look at me.”

            Patroclus didn’t move. A rough hand grabbed his chin and forced his head up, nails digging into his cheeks, and Patroclus cried out when the rope on his neck cut into him.

            “When I tell you to do something, you do it. I’m Adonis, the boss around here.”

            A callused thumb ran over his lips, parting them, and Patroclus wrenched his head away to settle it back on the contraption, thankful when the man let him go.

            “I understand you’re having trouble processing this. It’s normal. But the sooner you accept your new role, the better.”

            He strolled around to stand behind Patroclus, who was pretty sure he was going to throw up.

            “Have you ever had any male lovers before? Ever been mounted?”

            Patroclus’ face went bright vermilion, and he shook his head. His throat had constricted, and he didn’t think he could speak if he tried.

            “Are you lying to me? Princes do tend to fool around.”

            “I’m not lying,” Patroclus croaked.

            “Are you sure?” Adonis’ voice was in his ear now, and he twisted his head away from it. “No nights where you were pounded into the bedsheets? No times when you laid on your back while a strong man sweated like a stallion above you?”

            “No,” he whimpered as the man walked back behind him. “No, no, no.”

            “I believe you.” His words were soft. “Your relatives told me the same thing, but I still have to check, just in case.”

            A thumb pressed against him, and he thrashed despite the agony it caused. “ _No!_ ”

            “Easy, easy.” Matter-of-fact, chiding. “We don’t want you hurting yourself.”

            The pressure against him increased, the tip dipping inside the tight heat of his body, and all of Patroclus’ muscles locked up, zeroing in on keeping the unwelcome intrusion out.

            Adonis only chuckled and pressed harder, his thumb shoving through the resistance as Patroclus sobbed. The pain was white and hot, like someone had pressed a hot coal into him.

            _And this is only his finger._

“My, you’re tight. Definitely a virgin.”

            He withdrew quickly, leaving Patroclus shaking and covered in sweat. A palm smoothed over the curve of his spine. “You will make quite the addition here.”

            The next few weeks were almost like being back at his father’s home.

            He stayed in his room, with its light blue walls, personal washroom, and huge canopy bed, and hardly saw or talked to anyone. The barred windows were pitted with holes where the desperate hands of his predecessors had reached out for help.

            He prayed profusely, worshipping on his knees with his hands and mouth.  However, this god was made of human flesh rather than stone, and unlike the idols, he didn't stay silent.

            “Relax. Relax!” Adonis bellowed, his fingers fisted into Patroclus’ hair. “Breathe through your nose like I told you!”

            Patroclus gagged and choked, twisting his head to try to get away, but Adonis’ skin was pressed against his nose and his dick was halfway down his throat. He sobbed, tears falling hard and hot as he struggled to get enough air in and out.

            After what felt like hours of struggling and terror, he finally quieted, kneeling placidly between Adonis’ legs as his whole body trembled.

            “Good, good.” Adonis stroked the sweaty hairs at the nape of Patroclus’ neck. “See? It’s not so bad.”

            It was terrible. He just wanted it to be over.

            Adonis was quick, shoving into the heat of his mouth until he came with a shudder and pulled out, leaving Patroclus feeling like someone had just strangled him and poured lava down his throat.

            He clutched his neck, wincing as he swallowed.

            “That was good,” Adonis sighed.

            Patroclus shook his head and tried to speak, but it came out as a wheeze. It was _not_ good. He did not like it.

            “Get used to it. I’ll ask them to give you warm soup tonight to help.”

            Patroclus could only nod, tears making their way down his face as Adonis ruffled his hair and left the room, locking the door behind him.

            Eventually, Adonis brought in other men. They told Patroclus what they liked and he did it for them, sucking them off or giving them a channel with his hands. Sometimes they would ask him to lie down on his stomach so they could rut against him like he was a mare in heat and they were the stallions that Adonis had spoken to him of all of those weeks ago.

            He hated that the most. Hated the weight on top of him and the sweat that slicked their skin together, hated the heavy breathing in his ear of a man close to the edge and the bites left on his neck and shoulders.

            Never before in his life had he felt so alone.

            The men became faceless, nameless. Filtering in and out of his life in an endless, steady stream. He lost count of how many he satisfied, lost count of who they were or how they’d lain with him.

            They pretended to know him, called him “pretty” and crooned lewd things in his ears, but they didn’t know him, not really. No one had ever said his name since Adonis had introduced himself on that first day, and in the wee hours of the morning he would curl up in his washroom and repeat his own name to himself over and over again.

            _Patroclus. Patroclus. Patroclus._

He was not “pretty” or “beautiful” or “slut” or “sweetheart.” He was Patroclus.

            But Patroclus was a king’s son, not a whore in some ramshackle brothel and gang hotspot. He kept wondering if he even deserved such a name anymore; his father certainly wouldn’t take pride in him if he knew what he was doing.

            There came a fateful day when Adonis came into his room and there was no man with him.

            Patroclus was curled up on his bed, swathed in cheap silks that were made solely to be taken off, and turned to face him when he entered.

            “I’m going to start marketing you as the lost prince.”

            “What?” Patroclus demanded, sitting bolt upright.

            “Your father has just discovered that you are no longer with your cousins. He has executed them and issued a warrant for your return, but it’s leaked that he disowned you; no one is obligated to return you now.”

            Patroclus liked how Adonis said how “no one” was obligated. “No one” was him. _He_ wasn’t obligated to return Patroclus.

            Adonis continued, “People will pay a lot more to bed a prince than some nameless whore, you know. And there will definitely be more…high profile clients.”

            “Please give me back. My father will give you a lot of gold.”

            “You have made me more gold than your father could ever muster, sweetheart. Why would I want to give you up? You’re a favorite among my customers, and that brings us to why I came.” He sat down on the bed next to Patroclus, who shied away from him. “People have started telling me that they think your menu is rather…limited.”

            “Limited?” Patroclus parroted. A sinking feeling settled in his gut like scum at the top of a pond. “But I do everything they tell me to do.”

            “That’s because I’ve told them what they can and can’t tell you to do.” Adonis laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’ve come to lead you along the next and final step of your training.”

            _So now I’m a dog?_ Patroclus thought, but he stayed silent.

            “Take of your silks and lie down on your stomach.”

            He hesitated, picking at the sheets.

            “ _Now._ ”

            Patroclus, trembling all over like a leaf caught in the wind, shed his meager clothes and crawled up the bed to settle on his stomach. The comforters gave gently beneath his weight, suffocating him, and he buried his head in his arms as his heart jackrabbited.

            This was going to happen. This was _really_ going to happen.

            “Take it easy. The most important part is that you relax.” 

            Firm hands smoothed over his skin, kneading gently at the knots of tense muscle, and Patroclus sagged into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. There was the pop of a cork, and he dared a look over his shoulder to find that Adonis had a bottle of oil in his hand.

            He rubbed the oil, which smelled like lavender, on his palms. The oil was warm and the smell was powerful and dizzying, lulling him into a stupor as Adonis massaged his back.

            _He is cowing you. Making you compliant. It’s like how the stable hands drug the mare so she doesn’t kick the stallion when he is behind her._

“There you go. Relax, Patroclus.” Patroclus’s breath hitched at the sound of his own name being said by someone other than himself. “I want you to stay here while I bring someone in. He’s payed a lot of money to be your first, and he has promised to take the utmost care of you; I know him well and don't doubt his promises.”

            Patroclus hardly heard him, pliant and half-asleep.

            Adonis rose and went to the door, opening it a sliver. He caught bits and pieces of a conversation between Adonis’ familiar baritone and a soft tenor he didn't recognize.

            “…really skittish.”

            “…get him to relax?”

            “got them from a sage…”

            Then the door was closing and footsteps approached the bed. A cold hand ghosted over his spine, effectively jerking Patroclus out of whatever lull he’d slipped into.

            “Hello, Patroclus. Son of Menoetius.”

            He flinched, making a move to rise and face the intruder—the _customer_ —but the same cold hands pressed him back down into the bed.

            “I have brought a gift for you to help your nervousness.”

            Patroclus turned his head and found a wiry, middle-aged man who wasn’t even the slightest bit attractive. His hopes for a handsome young stud, one he could fantasize about and be aroused by, were quickly crushed, and he chewed on his lip to keep himself from crying.

            Even Adonis would’ve been a preferred partner.

            The man produced a pouch from his belt, shaking a small white tablet into his hand. Patroclus sat up and leaned in to examine it. It looked like a stone he would find on the seashore, and it smelled very strongly of herbs.

            “Here, take it.” The man placed the tablet into Patroclus’ palm, closing his fingers around it. “It calms the nerves and dulls the senses. We wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like you in a panic, now would we?”

            “What is it?”

            “That hardly matters. Don't chew it, though.”

            Patroclus stared down at the tablet for a few moments. This was going down either way. He could be present through it, weeping and hating himself, or he could be gone and only come to after the deed was done, and the former didn’t sound like something he could live with.

            “I’m afraid,” he admitted, the words a harsh whisper.

            “This will make it all better, I promise.”

            Patroclus screwed his eyes shut and popped the tablet into his mouth, swallowing without chewing like the man had told him.

            “Good.” The man praised. “Lie down on your stomach and get comfortable.”

            Patroclus obeyed, blinking owlishly. The world was already starting to go blurry, and his anxiety returned sharp and fast when he realized that this felt a whole lot like the drug his cousin had given him.

            He exhaled harshly and turned his head away when the man started to strip, peeling his expensive robes off to reveal chalky white, sagging skin covered with scraggly white hair and liver spots.

            “You look just as beautiful today as when I first saw you in your father’s court, Patroclus.”

            The words made something jump inside of him.

            _That’s not right. Something isn't right here,_ he thought, but his mind was already growing sluggish, his thoughts dragging along like molasses down a tree trunk.

            The man took the bottle of lavender oil from the nightstand, slicking up his gnarled fingers that looked like the twisting roots an old tree. His fingernails were chipped and ragged.

            _I don’t want to do this I don’t want to do this I don’t want to do this I—_

“Don’t wanna do this.” The words were slurred beyond comprehension, so it was no wonder why the man didn't heed his complaint.

            The tablet hadn't wiped him out entirely, had merely slowed him down and made him more pliant, and Patroclus cursed himself.

            Then again, he would probably have taken off by now if it weren’t for the drug’s effects.

            “You were so quiet when I visited,” the man remarked, and Patroclus whimpered when something wet pressed against him. “But I could see the fire in your eyes. It made you all the more alluring.”

            Patroclus squirmed when a finger wormed its way into his body despite the feeble resistance. He couldn’t fight or force it out; his whole body felt like it was made of silk and twine rather than flesh and bone.

            He made an attempt to squirm away, but his feet only shifted slightly, his toes curling. The man seemed to interpret it as the complete opposite of what it was, and a crooked grin spread over his face.

            “Enjoying it, sweetheart?”

            Patroclus wanted to bellow a denial, but his voice failed him, his tongue like a stone in his mouth.

            “I asked your father for your hand, you know. When you were young and before the terrible accident. He said no. You weren’t ready, he said.”

            Patroclus let out a strangled whine as one finger became two. It no longer just felt strange. It hurt.

            “But I thought quite the opposite. I thought you were lovely, ripe for the picking. Soft around the edges and perfect for holding. None of the hard muscle of manhood.”

            “Hurts,” Patroclus managed to slur out, biting down on his lip as the man’s fingers twisted.

            “You need to relax.”

            “I…can’t.”

            “Well, I guess it’s just going to have to hurt, then.”

            If two fingers hurt, then what was to come next would definitely tear Patroclus in half.

            He bit down on his tongue when a third was added, his whole body shaking and sodden with sweat. Despite the long and tedious precautions this man was taking and the generous amount of oil used, it did little to ease the tightness induced by fear and reluctance.

            The drug was not doing its job.

            “Here, let me try to help a little further.” The man’s fingers brushed over something inside of him and Patroclus bucked with a shocked gasp. “It doesn’t have to hurt, Patroclus.”

            _Not like this,_ he begged Aphrodite. _Not like this._

“I dreamed about you for years. I dreamed of holding you, of fucking you and making you mine, my loyal queen who would wait for me, oiled-up and slick in the bedroom so I could mount you every night.”

He massaged that spot inside of him with the expertise of someone who knew his way around this part of the body, and Patroclus let out a pathetic moan. He was half-hard, his dick unsure as to whether it should concentrate on the burning pleasure or the sharp pain.

            “Alright, I’m going to lay with you, now.” The fingers disappeared, and Patroclus’ relief was short-lived as something blunt and much bigger replaced them.

            He froze, exhaling raggedly when it pressed against his rim. His whole body had tensed up, his hands balled into fists and his eyes screwed tightly closed. The effects of the drug were almost a memory now, and he had a sinking feeling that he’d fought them off through sheer force of will.

            Callused hands smoothed up and down his back in an attempt to soothe. They felt like the skeletal hands of death. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me in.”

            “I don’t want to,” he gasped into the sheets. “I don’t want to do this.” A pause, and then, “I’m afraid.”

            “I prepped you well.”

            There was a small push, and Patroclus sucked in air through his teeth at the burning sensation, tensing up further.

            “Open up, Patroclus. I won’t ask you again.”

            “I’m sorry.” It sounded more like a plea for mercy than an apology.

            He wanted his mother. He wanted to go home.

            “I’m sorry, too,” was the rumbled reply, and then the man was shoving right through the resistance, ripping him apart.  

            Patroclus screamed and thrashed. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just lay here and let it happen.

            He wasn’t sure if it was his adrenaline or the help of Aphrodite answering his prayers that gave him the strength to tear himself out of the man’s grip and launch himself toward the door.

            “ _PATROCLUS!”_

Ripping the door open, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him down the hall, uncaring of his nudeness as his thighs burned and his bare feet slapped against the floorboards. It was early evening and there were already people waiting at the benches to be matched with one of the residents there, and they regarded him with dim surprise as he burst from the hall and threw himself toward the front door.

            His hand was just grasping the handle when a huge weight crashed into him and rough hands seized both of his arms.

            He looked up frantically at the two stern guards, his heart sinking and tried to writhe out of their grip, but they were ruthless.

            “Let me go!” Patroclus shrieked. “ _Let me go!”_

Adonis came tromping into the room, his eyes ablaze. Beside him was the man, who’d put his briefs back on but was otherwise unclothed, and Patroclus could see the way the veins in his neck and forehead popped.

            Adonis opened his mouth and Patroclus expected him to yell, but his voice was deadly calm, “Take him to the White Room.”

            “No!” Patroclus yelled as the guards dragged him away. “No!!”

            Over his shoulder he could see Adonis putting on a smile and placating the concerned customers, giving them all discounts for their purchases for the inconvenience. The man was promised a full refund.

            Many of the other residents were peering out the doors, muttering to one another as they watched Patroclus get dragged away. Their eyes were pitying, almost reminiscent. It’s like they were looking back on a past version of themselves that they’d long since given up.

            Patroclus thought he would faint as the guards hauled him into the White Room and tossed him onto the contraption, tying him down so tight that he couldn’t move without it being agony. They left him there for what was probably a few minutes but felt like years, the only sound in the room being his harsh breathing and the blood roaring in his ears.

            Adonis barged in not long after, slamming the door behind him.

            “You fucking bitch!” Patroclus yelped as Adonis grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced him to look him in the eye, the rope securing his neck feeling like a sword dipped in fire. “I show you a kindness, a mercy, and you throw it back into my face like that?”

            “I’m sorry,” Patroclus gasped, hissing when Adonis’ grip tightened. “I’m sorry.”

            “You’re not sorry.” He released his hold, and Patroclus could feel blood trickling down his neck and soaking into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I can see it in your eyes.”

            “I didn’t want to be taken. I’m not ready.”

            “You’re not the one who decides if you’re ready. I decide. I own your body. I own _you_.” He ran his hands through his hair, scowling. “And I know you’ll keep trying to escape until I break both of your legs or kill you. I have to nip that in the bud right away. I have to show you what happens to those who try to leave.”

            He left for a while, and when he came back, he was brandishing a poster, which he waved triumphantly in front of Patroclus:

 

_SPEND A NIGHT AT ELYSIUM WITH THE LOST VIRGIN PRINCE OF OPUS_

_Prince Patroclus, son of King Menoetius, available from afternoon to sunrise at discount!_

_“So tight, he squeaks!”_

 

            That night, Patroclus learned how long he could be fucked before he started to bleed.

            He learned how long he could bleed before he started to scream.

            He learned that he could only scream for so long before his voice gave out and he fell into resigned, miserable silence.

            He learned that his silence spurred some of them on, made them fuck harder in an attempt to get some reaction out of him, and if his screams started up again, they would take sick delight in it, tell him how much of a slut he was for their cock despite the tears rolling down his cheeks.

            Adonis made sure that everyone who came for him was able to have him, and that meant it went on all night and into the next morning.

            He sometimes drifted off into an exhausted delirium, only vaguely aware of the man behind him, and found he’d lapsed for huge gaps of time, a helpless mind trying to flee from the pain its body was in.

            By the time Adonis returned, Patroclus’ blood had stained the floor red. It was everywhere, oozing from the gashes on his wrists and neck and ankles where he’d thrashed too hard and dribbling steadily from his mess of an ass.

            He was half-convinced that the men had torn him a new hole and had fucked that, too.

            He hated himself. What would his father think of this, of his disaster of a son sitting in silence after spending a whole night being fucked by faceless men?

            What if he’d run a little faster? What if he’d fought harder?

            “Did that teach you well?” Adonis asked, patting Patroclus’ bloody, sweaty neck like he was an overworked pack mule. “Did you learn your lesson?”

            Patroclus stared off into nothing, his lower lip trembling as he nodded faintly. His face was sticky from crying and his whole body was in agony. His ass felt like someone had poured molten metal into him from a furnace.

            Adonis had the guards carry him to his washroom and bathe him because he was too weak to bathe himself.

            “Water,” Patroclus pleaded. The word was barely there, his throat raw and his voice gone. “I need water.”

            “Shut up,” one of them hissed, slapping him, and his tears mingled with the water droplets on his face.

            He didn't try to escape after that night. He did what he was told to do, though he didn't want to. His fear consumed him, made him obedient. He didn't want to go back to the White Room.  

            Adonis handed him a thick calendar for the year, and his heart sank when he realized he—his _body_ —was completely booked for the next five months.

            “Men are flocking here now that your identity’s out,” Adonis explained, grinning. Coins jingled in his pockets when he walked. “They’re all scrambling to get on the waiting list.”

            Patroclus said nothing, his fingers trembling as he tried to deny what he was seeing. A tear escaped from the corner of his eye and stained the ink on the papyrus, making it smudge.

            “Smile, Patroclus. This is good news.”

            Patroclus didn't smile. His lip trembled even harder, and he wiped furiously at his face. He was weak. He was a disgrace to his father and his mother and the entirety of his kingdom.

            “Your first customer is coming the moment Elysium opens tomorrow. You better have all your tears out before then, or there will be consequences.”

            Patroclus cried the whole night and never cried again.

            As he was swept up into his new life, he found himself serving at least twenty men a day, men who would rip at his hair and call him a slut and squeeze his hips until their nails cut crescent-shaped indents into his skin.

            His hours were officially from midday to sunrise, but Adonis often crammed in more suitors so that his work day was extended another two hours.

            By the time morning rolled around and he could finally rest, hand-shaped bruises bloomed over his skin and his neck was dotted with hickeys and bite-marks like he’d come down with a pox.

            It was better toward the beginning of the day, when he wasn’t bleeding from overuse and it didn’t feel like knives were tearing him up from the inside, but by the end he was exhausted and hungry and just wanted to go to sleep.

            “I booked three more clients for you,” Adonis told Patroclus on the end of a particularly terrible day. “The first should be coming in any minute.”

            “I’m bleeding,” Patroclus said. The words sounded hollow, even to him as studied the smears of blood on the sheets. He looked up at Adonis dejectedly, his eyes weary. He felt like he was going to pass out. 

            “It’s just three more clients.”

            Patroclus would’ve wept if he’d had any tears left to cry.

            As the weeks dragged on, he grew accustomed to his new life. The constant stream of men to and from his bedroom became normal, run-of-the mill. It became a job, more or less.

            The sex didn’t completely suck now that he wasn’t as reluctant and fearful. His body was looser, more pliant now that it had been worked and beaten like a dog, and he started to just…not care.

            He stopped caring that he was being fucked by faceless men, stopped caring what his father would think of him. He went numb, and with numbness came the slightest ounce of relief as he finally allowed himself to turn his misery into something else.

            He realized that many of the men, despite their bravado, were trying to please and impress him, and were often considerate enough to take his needs into account, using plenty of oil and always heeding his polite suggestions for them to slow down or be gentler.

            It took a while, but Patroclus eventually allowed himself to enjoy it, to accept the pleasure that many of the men were offering, and it became less and less of an anomaly when Patroclus got himself off.

            His favorite client had been a redheaded visitor from the north; his body had been strong but his hands gentle as they clutched Patroclus’ thighs while Patroclus rode him with abandon, rapture in his face and dripping from his lips.

            The man muttered in his native tongue, his voice sweeping over Patroclus’ spine like rolling thunder, praising him and calling him a goddess, and Patroclus had come with a gasp.

            Now, whenever there was a client that Patroclus did not particularly like, he would think of the redheaded northerner and imagine that it was he who was pleasuring him and not some mangled military man with crooked teeth who hated King Menoetius.

            Some men payed extra to hurt him, to wrap their hands around his throat and cane him like a child, and there was one man who’d nearly strangled him to death before Adonis and his men had barged in to interfere.  

            Despite this, however, he grew used to it, just like how Adonis had promised. He relished in the pleasure and gritted his teeth through the pain just like everyone else.

            It helped that the tide of profit rushing into Adonis’ coffers led to a complete re-vamping of Elysium that made it less of a dump.

            He bought the buildings on either side and painted the walls white, rolling red carpets along the creaky floorboards and embellishing the doors with gilded filigree. What had once been a ramshackle whorehouse was now a luxury brothel where people flocked from far and wide to get their kicks, and all of them had their eyes on Patroclus.

            Patroclus was moved into the largest room in the brothel, on the top floor. It was ten times larger than his old room, and his bed, decked out in red silk and satin, could’ve fit five men inside of it. They dressed him like a prince and made the customers feel like they were sneaking into King Menoetius’ palace to deprave his licentious son.

            Adonis had him done up with makeup so his cheeks would seem ruddier and his lashes longer, and ordered him to shave daily to give him a childlike pristineness that the clients simply adored to ruin and debase.

            There were a few instances where men came so that _Patroclus_ could debase _them_ , but they were few and far between, though it was in those moments that he truly felt like he was in control of his own life and his own actions.

            “There is a very important client coming to meet you,” Adonis told Patroclus one night when he was getting ready for bed, removing his golden bracelets and earrings. His ears still stung from where Adonis had stabbed through them with a sewing needle, but he didn’t feel like he had an infection.

            “When is he coming?” Patroclus murmured, washing the makeup off of his face. The water was cold on his skin and ran down his arms.

            “Tomorrow afternoon. He’s booked you for a day.”

            “A day?”

            “A _full_ day. Night and morning. He paid extra.”

            “He must have a mighty big treasury in stock if he can afford that.” Patroclus tried to hide the nervousness in his voice, but he could hear it bleeding into his words.

            “I’ve heard rumors he’s a prince, too.”

            Patroclus’ heart launched into his throat.

            A prince?

            Patroclus had met a lot of other princes during his time with his father, and there was a good chance that he would know this client. He didn’t remember any of the men who’d thus far claimed to have seen or met him before, which was a blessing, but he didn’t think he could handle staring at a familiar face while he worked.

            He was in no position to argue, though, so he simply said, “Interesting. So I will be sleeping with him?” Adonis’ brows furrowed, and he quickly added, “Like, actual slumber. Dreaming beside him.”

            “Yes. If he lets you sleep.”

            “He can deny me sleep?”

            “He can deny you whatever he wants with the amount of money he’s paying. He could deny you the right to blink and I’d let him.”

            Patroclus shivered even though he wasn’t cold, pulling his nightclothes over his body and hurrying to bed as Adonis excused himself and locked the door on his way out. He would’ve stayed up reading or writing, but he was determined to make up for the sleep he was going to lose at the hands of his next client.

            When he’d slept away the morning and woke up a little before the afternoon, Patroclus didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to face the horrors that surely awaited him.

            But Adonis’ wrath was worse than anything this client could ever do, so he hauled himself out of bed, shaved every single hair from his body, and dressed himself in his best finery, hoping that if he impressed this client enough with his beauty, he would let him sleep.

            “You alright?” Briseis asked in halting Greek when she and her group of chattering Anatolian friends filtered into the room to help him do his makeup.

            He’d grown close with these girls, prisoners of war taken and sold to Adonis’ business, and although the language barrier had hindered their relationship at first, eventually they’d caught on to each other’s languages.

            He was especially fond of Briseis, who was unapologetically witty and brazen. She was able to crack jokes despite their situation, and she was great at lifting spirits whenever any of the residents were feeling particularly wretched. Humor was a precious thing in a world so full of darkness.

            “I’m nervous,” Patroclus admitted as she rouged his cheeks, turning them rosy as if nipped at by cold. “I’ve never done this before.”

            “I don’t think any of us have done this before,” Briseis deadpanned, using some expensive Egyptian kohl to make his lashes look darker. “But I know you’re going to be fine. Tomorrow afternoon, your client’s gonna be stumbling out we a lazy grin on his face because you fucked the last of his brain cells out of him.”

            Patroclus blushed and ducked his head, smiling softly.

            “There! That’s it! Just do that and he’ll cater to your every whim. Might even propose to you so you can become a queen.”

            “That only happens in the myths, and only to innocent peasant girls. Never to a disgraced prince-turned-whore.”

            “You never know,” Briseis tutted, and the two of them laughed and enjoyed a nice breakfast together that the guards brought in, flicking olive pits at one another and chewing holes in their bread to make impromptu masks.

            By the time the afternoon rolled around, he was feeling confident. The girls bid him farewell—Briseis even offering him a peck on the cheek—before hustling back to their rooms so they could prepare to receive clients of their own.

            Patroclus sent a prayer up to Aphrodite and crawled onto his bed to wait, propped up on pillows and hoping that his lounging pose looked like he was relaxed instead of sick to his stomach with uneasiness.

            It wasn’t long before he heard a clamor of voices down the hall, and he gasped softly when they all headed to his room. A group? Adonis didn’t tell him it was a group!

            The door banged open and Patroclus scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide as a group of soldiers tromped into the room with Adonis on their heels. He couldn’t bear to take in their faces, so his gaze skittered to the floor.

            “Have fun, lover boy!” one of them called, and then all but one was out the door, which only eased Patroclus’ nerves slightly.

            Patroclus hid his terror by heading to one of the windows and staring out, feigning indifference at their arrival.

            “Prince Patroclus,” Adonis announced, and Patroclus turned, hoping his expression was schooled. “This is Prince Achilles of Phthia. _Aristos Achaion._ ”

            The best of the Greeks.

            He was met by smooth skin bronzed by the sun and nicked in places by battle scars, green eyes that reminded him of the rolling prairies in the north, and a cascade of blond hair that tumbled over his shoulders like a river tripping over stones.

            Achilles was the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life, the man he’d often dreamed of but never thought he’d meet. His anxiety was eclipsed by something almost akin to eagerness, a feeling he’d rarely experienced within the walls of Elysium.

            Patroclus dipped his head. “I am honored that you have traveled so far.”

            “Our armies are celebrating a decisive victory against a battalion trying to halt our trip to Troy,” Achilles murmured, his eyes wide. He seemed flustered and perhaps a touch humiliated, and he brandished a gigantic bottle of hard northern liquor, which was so thick and tall that he had to use both hands to hold it. “My comrades insisted that I…see you.”

            “Did they now?” Patroclus asked, his eyebrows climbing to his forehead as he took the liquor from him and placed it on the nightstand. A part of him was shocked; Greece was going to war with Troy? He’d been in Elysium for far too long.

            “They said I needed to unwind, but I’ve been busy.”

            “Most certainly.”

            “Is your real name Patroclus?”

            “Yes, it is.”

            There was an awkward pause, broken only when Adonis clapped his hands together with a grin. “I’ll excuse myself now. Please tell me if you need anything.”

            His eyes flashed when his gaze met that of Patroclus, and he knew the silent message he was trying to communicate: _You’d better be good._

            The silence was even more awkward once Adonis had gone, and Patroclus allowed his gaze to rake over Achilles. He’d heard legends of his speed and strength, of his skill with the spear and lyre alike, and yet here, in this room, he seemed incredibly ill at ease.

            _He’s nervous,_ Patroclus realized, a grin breaking out over his face.

            It was one thing to bed a veteran sodomist, but it was a completely other thing to bed someone inexperienced; it meant that Patroclus was the one with the reigns here, not Achilles.

            _You are going to have power over him that no other man has ever had,_ he thought as he stalked over.

            “You look like you’re going to devour me,” Achilles pointed out, his hands flexing at his sides as if he wanted to reach out to touch Patroclus but was restraining himself. His eyes were wary.

            “Who says I won’t?” Patroclus murmured, his grin turning sultry as he circled Achilles like a lion circling its prey. “You’d make quite the meal.”

            His fingers skimmed over Achilles’ arm and the solid muscle there, and his skin jumped as if leaping up into Patroclus’ touch. He was going to play this poor sap like a fiddle. God-spawn or not, this was Patroclus’ turf, one that Achilles was most definitely unfamiliar with, and that put the power in Patroclus’ hands. He felt almost drunk with it.

            “Have you ever…?”

            “Yes,” Achilles said hastily. “Twice.”

            “Ever with a man?”

            “No. But…I’ve thought about it. Would prefer it.”

            “Interesting,” Patroclus purred, standing toe to toe with him.

            He thought about all of the other men in this exact position, warriors about to be cut down and enemies about to be defeated. Men had stood before Achilles and felt the shadow of death reach down to grasp them by the back of their armor, but in this moment, Patroclus had never felt more alive.

            “Do you masturbate?” The question was deadpan, almost clinical, but Achilles went red all the same.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “You know what I said.”

            “I…I…uh…yes. Yes, I suppose.”

            “Frequently?”

            “No. May I ask the point of these questions?”

            “Just wondering if I have to warm you up first. Some men masturbate before in hopes of lasting longer and not embarrassing themselves while they’re with me.” Patroclus raked his gaze over him, chewing on his lower lip. “You don’t have to worry, though, we have time.”

            “I wasn’t worrying.”

            “Don't lie to me,” Patroclus whispered. “I’ve known a thousand faces and a thousand hearts and bodies. Though you look like a man of divinity, you lie like a mortal. You cannot hide from me behind your words.”

            Achilles looked like he’d been struck, taking a step back and folding his arms over his chest, but Patroclus could see the way his green eyes had darkened, how his light sweat made his brow shine in the sunlight. Patroclus felt like he was taming a god.

            He crept over to the bed and sat at the edge, patting the spot next to him, and Achilles took in a wavering breath.

            “Come here.” The order felt good in his mouth. It was so invigorating not to be on the receiving end of it.

            Achilles stayed stubbornly put, scuffing his feet like a pouty child, and Patroclus leaned forward like a viper poised to strike, curling his finger and beckoning him. Only the god of lust himself could've resisted Patroclus’ call, and Achilles was no Eros.

            He shuffled forward like a fish caught on a line, sinking down onto the bed next to Patroclus and regarding him with an expression that could only be described as worship.

            “May I touch you?” Patroclus asked, and Achilles’ throat bobbed when he swallowed, nodding because both he and Patroclus knew he was beyond words.

            Patroclus grabbed the straps of Achilles’ armor and threw his leg over his waist so that he was kneeling across his lap, their bodies pressed together for the first time. Achilles’ eyelashes fluttered hypnotically, like golden butterfly wings beating against his cheeks.

            Patroclus leaned in, his hands still fisted into the straps of Achilles’ armor, and mouthed at the spot beneath Achilles’ jaw, his lips brushing over his skin as he kissed and nibbled down the elegant column of his neck. Achilles gasped, his eyes screwed shut and his fingers twisted in the sheets.

            “Am I alluring to you, _Aristos Achaion_?” Patroclus gave Achilles’ earlobe a hard nip and relished in the way Achilles’ breath hitched, laving his tongue over it to soothe the sting. “Am I tempting?”

            “Yes.” The word was a breathless whisper.

            “Would you like to touch me? They tell me I’m soft.”

            “Yes.”

            Patroclus chewed on his lip playfully, reaching back and slowly pulling off his silks, revealing plains of bronzed skin inch by inch. When he finally pulled the fabric over his head, he tossed it to the floor and grinned as Achilles drank him in with all of the vigor of a man dying of thirst.

            Patroclus unknotted Achilles’ fingers from the sheets and guided them to his hips, where the pads of his fingers pressed into his skin, the touch hungry but not bruising. Achilles’s eyes fluttered closed once more as he ran his hands down Patroclus’ thighs and up his chest.

            “You _are_ soft.” His voice was barely there. “You’re…you’re beautiful. Are you a goddess in disguise?”

            “No.” Patroclus brought their lips together, stealing the breath from Achilles’ lungs as he suckled gently on his lowed lip before licking into his mouth. “No, I’m not.”

            “I thought we weren’t telling lies to each other,” Achilles pointed out slyly, and Patroclus chuckled, wrapping his arms around Achilles’ neck and lacing his fingers together.

            “I never said that. I just said I can tell when you’re lying. I’m unsure if it goes vice versa, though considering you seem to have the mental capacity of a pile of rocks at the moment, I wouldn’t put my money on it.”

            “Gorgeous _and_ witty. Definitely a goddess.”

            “A god, if you will.”

            “Of course, my apologies.”

            Achilles was starting to unwind, his body loosening as he allowed Patroclus to guide the sliding of their mouths. Deft hands ran all over Patroclus’ body, wandering over his torso and smoothing up his back as if to map every dip and knob of his skin.

            The kiss was languid and unhurried, but the pheromones in the air kept a wedge of lust lodged into the backs of their minds, reminding Patroclus of their intentions when they’d first started. He himself was half-hard already, though Achilles’ hands frustratingly didn't venture close to the places where they were most wanted.

            Perhaps then he should start off small.

            His hands skimmed over the unforgiving golden plate of Achilles’ armor and tugged at the belt that would usually hold a scabbard and cinch the chiton under his chestplate. It was lined with metal-plated leather strips that could serve as protection to the thighs without inhibiting movement.

            Achilles exhaled raggedly as Patroclus undid the belt with ease and it joined Patroclus’ clothing on the floor. He hiked Achilles’ chiton up, his hands running reverently over his sculpted thighs.

            “Wait,” Achilles hissed as soon as Patroclus’ fingers grazed his dick. “I don’t want to do this in armor. Want to press against you.”

            Patroclus laughed and slipped off of Achilles’ lap so he could struggle out of his chestplate and shuck off his greaves, almost tearing his sandals off of his feet in an attempt to remove them.

            As he grasped the hem of his chiton, he hesitated. “Should I?”

            “If you’d like.”

            Achilles pulled his chiton over his head, baring his excellent physique to Patroclus’ hungry gaze. His body looked like it had been carved from marble and painted in golds and coppers by the finest artist in the land, and Patroclus felt no shame ogling him.

            “Go lie down.” He practically shooed Achilles to the pillows, and he watched agape as Patroclus prowled up the bed to loom above him.

            For the first time, it was Achilles who reached out first, leaning up and bringing their mouths back together. Patroclus sighed and lowered himself down on top of him, every inch of skin pressed together in the most delicious way.

            Patroclus grunted when Achilles surged into the kiss, reverent touches turning needy as they clutched at one another. Their tongues mingled, their blood humming as their hands explored each other’s bodies to their liking.

            Patroclus managed to pull away despite the hands fisted into his hair, gasping for breath, and then went for the neck, his lips sucking spatters of dark hickeys into the skin there. He moaned when Achilles did the same, his movements sloppier and with a lot more spit involved, but the sheer lack of finesse made it all the more erogenous.

            Patroclus kissed and lapped and nipped down Achilles’ chest, stopping along the way to mouth at each nipple, which made Achilles cry out and buck against him.

            The observation was mentally filed away for later reference.

            When Patroclus finally reached Achilles’ dick, which was hard and leaking, he looked up to find Achilles watching him raptly, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he propped himself up on his elbows.

            His eyes never leaving Achilles’, he pressed a gentle kiss against the crown, smirking when Achilles gasped softly.

            He took the head into his mouth, suckling on it, and pulled away to lick a stripe from root to tip. Achilles lunged forward and grabbed the base of his dick, his expression pinched with concentration as his toes curled.

            Patroclus batted his hands away. “We have time to do this again, Achilles. This is for a reason, you know. A cleaning of the pipes, if you will, so don’t be ashamed.”

            “I’m not ashamed,” Achilles insisted, going red. He ducked his chin sheepishly. “I don’t want it to end too quickly, though.”

            “I can show you quick.”

            Before Achilles could protest, Patroclus had swallowed him down to the root, and all it took was a soft hum and Achilles was coming with a yelp, his whole body locking up as he came down Patroclus’ throat.

            Patroclus swallowed, pulling off with a wet pop and wiping at the saliva on his lips. His grin was like the cat that caught the canary, and Achilles looked like he’d just been dumped into a bucket of cold water.

            “That was the evilest thing you could’ve ever done,” he stated as Patroclus crawled up the bed to lie beside him, his cheek against Achilles’ shoulder. 

            “I could’ve bitten your dick off.”

            “Okay, so not the evilest thing, but perhaps the pettiest.”

            “That’s fair,” Patroclus acquiesced, tracing patterns on Achilles’ chest with his fingertips and taking delight in the way he shivered.

            “You can play my body like an instrument,” Achilles mumbled, burying his face into Patroclus’ hair and taking in the rose perfume that Briseis had showered him with beforehand. “You know exactly which strings to pluck to make me fly apart at the seams.”

            “I’ve been practicing for a long time.”

            “How long?”

            “Long enough.”

            When he looked up, he saw that Achilles’ expression was pinched. He’d gone tense all over. “Do you…do you want to be here?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Do you want to be doing this? With me?”

            “You’re very handsome and polite.”

            “That’s not what I asked.”

            Patroclus pressed a kiss against Achilles’ bicep. “I’ve serviced many terrible men during my time here. They delighted in hurting me, in making me cry. But you’re not like those men, I don’t think. You’re kind.”

            “You don’t know me.”

            “The fact that you even asked me if I was okay with having sex with you shows the goldenness of your heart. And yes, I do want have sex with you. Repeatedly.” A pause, and then. “This is the most content I’ve been in quite a while.”

            _Since that redheaded northerner,_ Patroclus thought. _Even though I didn’t know his name._

His breath puffed against Achilles’ ear, “Now, let’s see what you’ve got to offer.”

            Achilles seemed confused at first, but his eyes widened when Patroclus reached to the end table and grabbed the oil bottle. “Do you know how to prep your partners?”

            He shook his head, and Patroclus smirked. “I’ll teach you.”

            “But what if I do it wrong?”

            “That is why I’m teaching you now, so you don’t get it wrong later when I have higher expectations and am far hornier.” He clambered over Achilles, hovering over him with his arms and legs on either side of his body. “Take the bottle.”

            Achilles sat up straighter and took the oil bottle, rubbing the back of his neck.

            He let out a shocked gasp when Patroclus took a hold of his dick and held up his fingers to it, closing one eye and tsking. “Put as much oil as you can on four…no, three…fingers. But don’t let it drip, it makes a mess.”

            “I’m putting it on four fingers,” Achilles grumbled.

            “Not everyone can be as well-endowed as the Carthaginians.”

            “That one was especially wounding. Your tongue is sharper than my spear.”

            “And just as long, which can come in handy,” Patroclus said with a wink.

            Achilles blinked owlishly at him, and his fingers started dripping with oil because the idiot had forgotten about it.

            “Alright, that’s enough. Now, start with one finger.”

            “Now?”

            “No, on the solstice. Yes, now!”

            Achilles worried at his lip as Patroclus shimmied closer, their chests pressed together and their faces inches apart. Patroclus reminded himself to relax; all of this excitement was making him tense, and the last thing he wanted was for his time with Achilles to be ruined by a bout of absolutely awful sex.

            Achilles’ left hand, the one not covered in oil, cupped the side of Patroclus’ face, and Patroclus leaned into it, his eyes sliding shut as he kissed his palm. Achilles’ other hand reached behind Patroclus, and the initial touch of his finger against him had Patroclus shivering. The oil was a bit cold, but he was eager and very, very attracted to Achilles, so he wasn’t in the mood to be nitpicky.

            Achilles’ index finger pressed, gently, the tip dipping inside.

            “You’re warm,” Achilles murmured.

            “You’ve lain with women before, and their insides had to be warm. What, did you expect that an ass would feel like the frozen north in comparison?”

            “I’m not sure if I find your constant berating attractive, humbling, or downright insulting.”

            “All three, perhaps?”

            “Perhaps,” Achilles said with a grin as he pushed his finger in, a little too eagerly.

            “Slower.” Patroclus’ teeth gritted against the slight sting, but the anticipation for what was to come eclipsed the pain.

            “My apologies.” Once his finger had pushed as far as it could go, he frowned. “What now?”

            “Open me up. It shouldn’t take as long for me as with others, but remember when you leave that less experienced people will probably need twenty minutes of prep or more.”

            He didn’t like to think of how Achilles would eventually be leaving, and the words made his throat tight, though he was determined not to allow his dread to show on his face and ruin the moment.

            The godling took to the skill surprisingly well, stretching Patroclus out with an expertise that made him doubt his claims of having never laid with a man. Once Patroclus gave him the go-ahead, he added another finger, and after a while, a third.

            Achilles watched in awe as Patroclus’ mouth fell open, his eyelids fluttering as he rocked gently back onto Achilles’ hand, chasing the pleasure. He was panting softly, sweat condensing at the nape of his neck as his whole body hummed like a fire slowly being stoked.

            Achilles’ fingers jabbed at his prostate, wholly on accident, and Patroclus let out a sharp moan, his toes curling as he concentrated on not coming right there and then.

            “I suggest you refrain from doing that if you don’t want this to end in a matter of five seconds,” Patroclus gasped, and Achilles did the best he could to comply.

            His pupils had blown wide, his free hand running up and down Patroclus’ back. In that moment, Patroclus knew he had to have Achilles inside of him or else he would crumble to pieces before they even got to the exciting part.

            “Alright, I’m good. You can stop.” Patroclus’ body mourned the loss of Achilles’ fingers as he obeyed. “How do you want me?”

            Achilles stared at him for a few moments, dumbfounded, before murmuring, “On your back, if you’d like?”

            “Sounds good to me.”

            There were a few moments of awkward fumbling and tangled limbs, and Patroclus lowered himself down amid the pillows, his legs falling open in invitation.

            Achilles slotted himself between them, his breath coming unevenly as he planted his hands on either side of Patroclus’ head. He looked stunning, his body outlined in gold as the sun touched the horizon outside the windows, and his hair fell into his beautiful green eyes despite his constant attempts to brush it away.

            Even now, when Patroclus was so clearly at his mercy, Achilles looked to him for guidance, almost like a child looking to his mother.

            Patroclus said nothing, miming zipping his lips as his hands slithered up Achilles’ chest and clutched his shoulders. As much as he wanted this to be perfect, he wanted even more to see what Achilles would do when he had the reigns.

            Hesitating, Achilles used one hand to take hold of his dick, which had had enough time to recover from their previous activities and was hard. He guided it to Patroclus’ entrance, the two of them exhaling in unison at the first touch.

            His gaze met Patroclus’, questioning, and Patroclus gave a slight nod.

            The first press was like fireworks set off beneath his skin, and Achilles’ hands flew to Patroclus’ hips as if to keep himself from tipping over.

            “Easy,” Patroclus warned him, and Achilles nodded breathlessly.

            He pushed in slowly, his whole body shaking as he sheathed himself in the glorious heat of Patroclus’ body. When he finally bottomed out, he let out a heavy breath. The two of them were now as close as any two human beings could get, clutching one another as if feeding off of each other’s pleasure and getting drunk on it.

            “Move,” the words came out as a rasp as he wrapped his legs around Achilles’ waist in an attempt to somehow pull him deeper. “Please.”

            Achilles obeyed, giving a few experimental thrusts and going cross-eyed when Patroclus moaned and clenched down around him.

            “This isn’t going to last long,” he muttered, and Patroclus would’ve laughed had he not been grappling against his impending orgasm.

            Achilles picked up the pace, spurred on by Patroclus’ soft noises of appreciation, until he was pounding into him, seeming shocked by the pleasure that each thrust brought. The bed creaked and words of worship and reverence tripped over their tongues like honey on their lips.

            Achilles had officially ruined Patroclus for any other man. The redheaded northerner didn’t even hold a candle to _Aristos Achaion._

His body was lithe and graceful, his hands strong and his hips even stronger as they snapped forward with every drive into Patroclus’ body. He now understood why the offspring of the divine were always so revered; it was like lying with a summer storm or a crashing wave, the sheer power and beauty of it enough to make Patroclus tremble as if worshipping at the feet of a god.

            “ _Philtatos_ ,” Achilles whispered against his skin and lips, shining so brightly that it was like staring into the face of the sun. “You’re more beautiful than any god I have ever laid eyes upon.”

            _Philtatos._ Most beloved.

            Patroclus was pretty sure that there were people who’d died because of the gods’ jealousy, and perhaps in that moment Achilles had just put a huge target on his back, but he didn’t care; he could be struck down by a bolt of heavenly lightning and he would’ve died a content man, his last moments ones of ecstasy.

            He threw his head back and keened, a sound he knew that the whole brothel would hear, but he didn’t have it in him to care.

            _This is how it’s supposed to be like,_ he managed to think as Achilles dragged him down into a delirious haze of bliss. _This is what it’s supposed to be._

“Patroclus, I—”

            Patroclus shivered at the sound of his name on Achilles’ lips, the way he spoke it as if it was sacred. “Yes?”

            “I’m going to—”

            “Go ahead, love.”

            Achilles tumbled over the edge with a strangled gasp, his hips stuttering to a stop as he buried his face into Patroclus’ neck, and Patroclus was not far behind him, only having to jack himself twice before he came with a cry.

            The two collapsed into a tangle of arms, legs, and sweat.

            “Huh,” was all Achilles could say, his eyes dazed. He managed a sloppy, openmouthed-kissed against the corner of Patroclus’ mouth. “Huh…”

            Patroclus’ sides were heaving, and he laughed softly through his labored breaths, kissing Achilles’ nose and holding him close. 

            “That was incredible,” Achilles managed to sutter out when he finally regained control of his vocal cords. “You’re incredible.”

            “Same could be said for you,” was the breathless reply. Patroclus ran his hands through Achilles’ beautiful blond hair, which was matted from Patroclus’ fingers tugging and pulling at it. “Although your talent is god-given. I’m a little jealous because you’ve probably never had to practice for anything in your whole life.”

            “I practice fighting,” Achilles murmured, rolling off of Patroclus and lying beside him with his hands folded behind his head. “And the lyre.”

            Before Patroclus could react, he swiped his finger through the drying seed on Patroclus’ stomach and popped it into his mouth. Before Patroclus could even react or think of something witty, Achilles then proceeded to lean over and lick a stripe up Patroclus’ chest and lap him clean.

            “So you don’t have to get up,” he explained when he saw Patroclus staring at him agape.

            “Efficient.” Patroclus wiped the shock off of his face as he lowered his eyes, swirling a long strand of Achilles’ hair around his finger. “But I assumed you would rather join me in the tub.”

            “You never told me that was an option!”

            After making sure they were both decent, they rang for the guards, who brought up pails of steaming water until the bath was brimming.  

            It was far from big enough to fit more than one person, and the two of them laughed as their knees knocked together and water sloshed over the sides.

            “I thought this would be…” Achilles paused to flick water at Patroclus, who glared. “I don’t know. Sexier.”

            “My legs are getting pins and needles,” Patroclus agreed as he lathered up a washcloth with lye soap and scrubbed at his arms. “Is this your first bath in a while?”

            “No. Do I smell?” Achilles fretted.

            Patroclus shook his head. “I just assumed that soldiers didn’t bathe or clean their teeth and just lived in abject filth ninety percent of the time.”

            “Surely you don’t think so poorly of me.”

            “You _are_ the one who thought us bathing together in a small tub would be sexy.”

            “You’re right, but you shouldn’t say it.”

            His pout was cute, his nose wrinkling and his lower lip jutting out as he folded his arms like a petulant child.

            Once they were done washing themselves and stepped out of the tub to dry off, Patroclus caught Achilles staring at his ass when he bent over to pick up his towel. Batting his lashes, Patroclus lured him in for a heated kiss, which eventually led to a make out session that left both of their lips red and kiss-swollen.

            “You’re getting good at this,” Patroclus laughed when they stumbled back to the bed, completely entangled with one another as their hands explored and they peppered kisses along each other’s skin.

            “This is one of the best things that has ever happened to me,” Achilles admitted.

            “Oh, sure.” Patroclus rolled his eyes and mouthed along Achilles’ jaw. “Getting down and dirty with a whore is a highlight of your life. How come I find that hard to believe?”

            “I’m not lying. I’m having an amazing time.”

            “Glad to know I’m doing well.” Patroclus patted Achilles’ flank. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

            Achilles snorted, kissing Patroclus’ lips, nose, and cheeks. When Patroclus’ eyes slipped closed to take in the feeling, he kissed his eyelids, too. Somehow, the gesture felt almost as intimate as when they were joined together.

            “ _Philtatos,”_ Achilles murmured.

            “You shouldn’t call me that.” Patroclus threaded their fingers together, his lips grazing over the fine bones and tendons and the calluses wrought from many hours spent holding a spear.

            “Why not?”

            “It’s a sacred word that shouldn’t be thrown around so easily. Save it for your princess. Or prince.”

             Though his tone was light, the words felt bitter in his mouth. All of a sudden, the thought that Achilles was going to leave in tomorrow afternoon and move on with his life, taking other lovers and settling down without ever seeing Patroclus again, made his mouth dry.

            “But you _are_ my prince.”

            “I’m a dishonored prince,” Patroclus reminded him, and Achilles gave him a skeptical look. “A real prince and a whore prince are two different things.”

            “They both have prince in the name. Besides, I think you’re wonderful.”

            “I know,” Patroclus drawled, licking his lips.

            “You misunderstand. I’m not talking about your body.” He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “Though your body is wonderful, too. I’m talking about you. Your personality.”

            “There’s not much to think of as wonderful. I’m a pretty uninteresting person.”

            “Don’t say that,” Achilles insisted. “You’re more interesting than all of the other princes I’ve ever met. You’re witty and thoughtful and compassionate.”

            “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

            “You poke fun at me and crack jokes. My comrades are so afraid of saying something insulting that they just avoid me. I have few friends.”

            “But you’re Achilles! The best of the Greeks!”

            “Admirers, worshippers, and allies aren’t the same as friends.” Achilles picked at the sheets absently. “You also have kind eyes.”

            “Kind eyes?”

            “Yes, they’re soft. They’re the eyes of someone who’s been through a lot and yet doesn’t let his past control him.”

            “My past is controlling me as we speak.”

            “Yes, but it hasn’t made you steely or unfeeling. You’re a beacon in a sea of darkness, making the best of what you have. Your light brings me joy.”

            “I’m glad,” Patroclus whispered, feeling as if Achilles had just ripped out his heart from his chest and read it like an open book. “It’s hard to keep going sometimes, though.”

            “That happens to everyone, but you will get through it.”

            _I doubt it. After you leave, my life is going to be ruined,_ Patroclus thought. Instead of saying this aloud, he just laughed it off, distracting himself by using his finger to swirl circles into the muscle of Achilles’ arm.

            After a long stretch of silence where they relished in each other’s company, Patroclus prompted, “Wanna fuck?”

            “You’re very straightforward.”

            “You can add it to the list of things you like about me,” he scoffed.

            “I’ve had two orgasms already. I don’t think I can handle another.”

            “Suit yourself.” Patroclus slumped against Achilles and nuzzled into his chest.

            They talked for a long while about trivial things, getting to know one another. Patroclus learned that Achilles’ mother was Thetis, a sea nymph, and that she’d sent him away to the land of Scyros to hide among the dancers there in an attempt to dodge the call of war. He’d been discovered by his comrades Odysseus and Diomedes despite Thetis’ efforts, and had gladly sailed away to defeat the Trojans.

            Patroclus didn’t have much to tell him about his past, which made him embarrassed. He didn’t really want to bring it up, so instead he told Achilles about Briseis and his other friends from Anatolia, how they’d been helping each other get through the long weeks of living at Elysium.

            Patroclus was in the middle of telling Achilles about how he thought the square pupils of goats were unnerving when the doorknob turned and the door creaked open, revealing Adonis in the doorway brandishing a dinner tray with two plates of porridge.

            Achilles yanked the covers up over their bodies to hide them, flustered, but Patroclus only regarded Adonis calmly.

            “Is everything alright in here?” Adonis asked, the question directed at Achilles. “He is serving you well?”

            Achilles’ eyes narrowed, and Patroclus could feel the way he’d tensed up, his hatred sizzling just below the surface. He put a hand on his arm in an attempt to placate.

            “He’s excellent, thank you.”

            “Would you two like some dinner?”

            “Yes, please,” Patroclus stated before Achilles could open his mouth and curse Adonis out. “Thank you.”

            Adonis nodded, setting the plate down before he withdrew.

            “You’re too good for this place,” Achilles murmured. “You don’t belong here. I should take you home with me instead.”

            Patroclus froze, his breath wavering. “What?”

            “I said I should take you home with me, whisk you away from that disgusting, evil crook.”

            Patroclus thought he'd have a heart attack. Briseis had been right about her whole prince-comes-to-save-the-captured-love-interest cliché. But he knew that hope could be the deadliest poison of them all, so he quickly played down his excitement, “You’d have to wrestle my papers from his cold, dead hands.”

            “I’m a soldier, and a magnificent one, at that. I could kill Adonis and his guards easily.”

            “You shouldn’t say such things. People could be listening.”

            “Let them listen. Even if I wasn’t strong enough, I have a whole army on my side. We could march back in and come back for you.”

            “You’d have a war on your hands. I bring in a lot of money for this city.”

            “I’d gladly go to war for you.”

            “But you need to save your troops for Troy. Besides, who of your soldiers would be willing to die for a dishonored prince?”

            Achilles’ face crumpled at the realization, his playful smile receding as his lips pursed grimly. He wouldn’t look at Patroclus, though his arms tightened around him as if to shield him from every bad thing in the world.

            “I can’t leave you here. I don’t want to leave you here.”

            “You have to.” Night had fallen, time slipping away from them. “I’ll be okay.”

            _No, you won’t,_ a voice in his head chided.

            “Patroclus.” His name was a prayer on Achilles’ lips. “ _Philtatos._ ”

            “ _Aristos Achaion_.”

            “Don’t call me that. I’m to worship you, not the other way around.”

            “Fine; if you worship me, you’ll do what I tell you?” Patroclus purred, walking his fingers up Achilles’ chest and running them along his jaw. “Follow my every order?”

            “Most certainly,” Achilles murmured, his eyes going dark.

            “Excellent. I order you not to tell me what to do; I shall worship whomever I please.”

            Achilles threw his head back and laughed, a low, rich sound as he reached over and joined their lips, their noses mashed together and their tongues tangling.

            Patroclus threw his leg over Achilles’ middle and grabbed for the oil, their mouths never parting. He slicked his fingers up and reached around to test if he was still loose from earlier, prepping himself sparingly. By the time he slicked up Achilles’ dick, both of them were panting and trembling with need.

            “Let’s see how well you take orders,” Patroclus whispered, and Achilles’ mouth parted as he loomed over him. “Put your hands on either side of your head.”

            Achilles obeyed.

            “Keep them there. You can’t move them until I say you can move them. Understand?”

            He nodded vigorously, and Patroclus’ feigned solidness melted away into a warm smile. He took a hold of Achilles’ dick and pressed it against his entrance, and Achilles cried out and grabbed Patroclus’ hips.

            Patroclus gave him a withering look, freezing. They were right there, on the brink, and yet Patroclus refused to take the final step and sink down.

            “Hands. Off.”

            Achilles quickly complied, his fingers twitching and his legs shifting restlessly like a stallion kept too long in a stall. “I’m sorry.”

            “You’re forgiven, but if you do that again, I’ll leave you hanging and make you watch while I finger myself to completion. Got it?”

            “Got it,” Achilles parroted faintly.

            Patroclus leaned down and kissed him tenderly, and his eyes fluttered. Both of them groaned as Patroclus allowed gravity to pull him down inch by painstaking inch until he was fully seated in Achilles’ lap.

            Achilles’ hands twisted in the sheets, but he was obeying Patroclus’ instructions. That sense of power, that feeling of having a godling warrior, the best of the Greeks, at his mercy, made Patroclus’ blood sing.

            He mouthed along Achilles’ chest, ravishing each nipple in turn and delighting in the hysterical moan it elicited, and pecked his nose and lips before planting his hands on either side of Achilles’ head and shoving his hips down.

            Patroclus worked up a punishing rhythm, his eyes screwed shut in concentration and his tongue poking out slightly between his lips as he rode Achilles with abandon. There was an urgency about it, in the elegant, sinuous movement of his body and the breaths sawing in and out of his lungs. It was the urgency of a lover who didn’t have much time with his beloved and wanted to make the most of it.

            Achilles could only sit back and watch in utter awe as Patroclus’ muscles flexed and pulled as he worked himself up and down, his hair fanned out on the pillow like a golden halo.

            Patroclus’ thighs trembled from the exertion, but Achilles was hitting that special place inside of him and making him light up from the inside out.

            “Achilles, Achilles,” he chanted, reverent, throwing his head back. He peeled open his eyes and saw that Achilles’ hands were almost tearing the bedsheets apart, and he leaned forward and placed them on his thighs, lacing their fingers together there.

            He was so, so close, teetering on the edge of ecstasy and chasing it as quickly as he could, and Achilles’ hands let go of his to run them up and down his back and clutch at his hips to steady him.

            Their eyes met, and Patroclus’ rhythm faltered when he was met by a gaze so full of adoration and worship it made his skin feel like it was burning.

            “You’re incredible,” Achilles whispered, his voice trembling. “ _I mia kai monadiki mou agapi._ ”

            My one and only love.

            A tear made its way down Patroclus’ cheek as he bent down and hushed words of love and worship into Achilles’ chest, working his way up to kissing his lips. Achilles’ hands rose up and curled into his hair, their faces crushed together as if they could somehow absorb one another and become two minds in one body.

            It was less kissing and more like breathing each other’s air, and Patroclus nipped at Achilles’ lips and let their tongues tangle. He choked on his breath when Achilles’ grabbed his dick, and all it took were three hard strokes and he was coming with a wordless cry into Achilles’ mouth.

            His hips stuttered and his ass clamped down on Achilles, who could only helplessly follow in suit as he muffled his moan into Patroclus’ neck.

            Patroclus’ arms gave way and he collapsed on top of Achilles, both of them breathing like they’d just run a marathon.

            “Did you…did you mean that?” were the first words out of his mouth, though they were raspy. “Or was it some spur of the moment thing?”

            “I meant it. I meant every word of it.”

            “Be honest. Please.”

            “I have never been anything but honest to you, my love.” Achilles’ breath hitched when Patroclus rose up and his dick slipped free, and laid down beside him. “I am going to save myself for you and you alone, even when I am gone tomorrow.”

            “Don’t say that,” Patroclus croaked, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Troy will bring riches, fame…” His throat closed. “War prizes. We’ve only just met. Don’t waste the rest of your life being celibate because of me.”

            “I won’t be wasting too much. I’m not supposed to return from Troy. The gods have prophesized it, saying I’ll be killed as soon as Hector the war general is cut down.”

            Patroclus exhaled raggedly, burying his face into Achilles’ neck. “No…”

            “I will die with your name on my lips. Adonis sells those small oil paintings of you, right? I shall purchase one of those and always wish you goodnight every day till my last.”

            Patroclus was crying in earnest now, but he managed to say through his tears, “But all of those paintings are of me naked.”

            “All the better for me.” When he saw Patroclus’ glare, he acquiesced, “I’ll hire someone to paint a few clothes on you, but only a few.”

            “I wish I could make the same promises. I wish I could save myself only for you.” He shook his head bitterly and glanced over at his calendar, tacked on the wall. “I have five other clients tomorrow, right after you leave.”

            “That’s okay. I don’t mind. All I ask is that you think of me every time you orgasm.”

            Patroclus let out a laugh that was an incredible imitation of a donkey’s bray. “With my luck, I’ll never orgasm again after this. I have fucked the best of the Greeks, and now there’s no one above that. Unless I were to fuck a god, of course.”

            “I don’t doubt that you could lure Zeus or Apollo into your bedchambers, my beloved.”

            “Will I ever see you again?”

            Achilles’ lips pursed into a thin line. “If I survive the defeat of Troy, the first thing I’ll do is return to you. I give you my word on that.”

            “And I give you my word that although my body is not mine and therefore cannot belong to you, either, my heart is yours wholly and completely. I love you, Achilles.”

            It was like a fairytale, and a part of his brain was telling him he couldn’t love a man he’d just met. And yet it seemed perfect, like the gods had destined their meeting and their adoration for each other. Although it didn’t comply by the rules of long, drawn out courting and mutual pining, he knew what he was feeling was real.

            Perhaps it was because Achilles was handsome and good in bed and one of the only men who’d ever been kind to him in this wretched place, but no matter the circumstances, he knew that Achilles was something to live for. He couldn’t wither and die within these walls if he knew Achilles would be returning for him someday if he could.

            They didn’t sleep that night, murmuring to one another as the stars twinkled outside and the bustle of the city fell to the reign of a peaceful hush. They kissed and had sex, too, but the most intimate moments were when they were facing each other in bed, their foreheads pressed together and their fingers twined as they talked about nonsensical things. They cherished every precious moment they had, however few they may be, and Patroclus swore he would break down when he saw the sun peeking out over the tops of the buildings.

            “I don’t want you to go,” he wept, holding Achilles close as the sky turned fiery with reds and golds. “I don’t want you to go.”

            “I know, I know, love.” He reached out of bed and took his beautiful golden chestplate off the floor. “Here, keep this. In memory of me.”

            “Oh, it’s beautiful, but you need it to keep you safe.” He gently pushed the gift away. “You need to return to me, remember? You can’t if you don’t have a chestplate.”

            “I have plenty of chestplates to spare,” Achilles tutted, putting it back on the ground and leaning it against the dresser. “You can wear it when you’re alone and pretend you’re me.”

            “You drive a hard bargain,” Patroclus laughed. “Fine, I’ll take it. It…it won’t be the same, though.”

            “Perhaps I should sell myself to Adonis, too, and we can be prince-whores together. We can ravish each other on our time off and have sexy threesomes on our time on.”

            Patroclus hacked on an ugly laugh, wiping at his face until his eyes and nose were red. “No, they need you to storm Troy for…” A pause, and then, “Wait, why are we at war with Troy again?”

            “It’s really a long story.”

            “Humor me.”

            Achilles rubbed the back of his neck. “So…Phthia and the armies of just about every other nation in Greece have to storm Troy to…to…”

            Patroclus raised an eyebrow.

            “To rescue Helen, King Menelaus’ wife.”

            “What’s Helen doing in Troy?!” Patroclus demanded, sitting bolt upright. “The Spartan palace is one of the most secure in all of Greece.”

            “I don’t know how, but Prince Paris abducted her and is now hiding her behind Troy’s impenetrable gates. We have to get her back; though I’m not obligated, many other kings and princes are because they swore an oath to protect her when they came for her hand in marriage.”

            Patroclus thought his heart stopped, and he planted a hand on his chest as if to make sure it was still beating. “I took that oath.”

            Achilles’ eyes widened. “What?”

            “I took that oath. My father presented me to her for marriage and I took the oath with all of the other suitors. Gods, it was so long ago. I’d forgotten…”

            “You’re…you’re really Prince Patroclus?”

            Patroclus exhaled raggedly, his hands curling into the sheets. “You didn’t think I was?”

            “No, of course not.” Achilles sat up straighter, and Patroclus grimaced, refusing to look at him. “It’s basically common fact that you’re a fake, some other boy named Patroclus who Adonis set up as a puppet to bring in profits from the whole lost prince scandal.”

            Patroclus’ lip curled bitterly. No wonder why his father hadn’t sent troops to rescue him despite his current frame; everyone thought he was some sort of sick charlatan. Achilles had thought he was just some random whore Adonis picked up from the streets.

            He noticed the crestfallen look on Patroclus’ face, the way he wouldn’t meet his gaze, and sucked in air through his teeth. “You’re not saying that Adonis is right, are you? There are rumors that you’re the real thing, but I never believed—”

            Patroclus’ dejected stare and the clench of his jaw was answer enough.

            Achilles leapt from the bed. “You lied to me!”

            Patroclus scrambled to his feet, panic sending his heart into a frenzy. “What? I never—”

            “You said you wanted to lay with me, that you chose to of your own free will!”

            “I wasn’t lying!”

            “It can’t be the truth if the rumors are also the truth.” Achilles stalked around the bed and stood toe to toe with Patroclus, his eyes blazing. “Because the rumors say that you, Prince Patroclus, were drugged by your cousins and brought here, where you were brutally broken in and forced into sexual slavery at the hands of Adonis. Is that the truth?”

            Patroclus said nothing, swallowing hard as tears welled up in his eyes.

            “Answer me.”

            A tear slipped down Patroclus’ face, and he slowly nodded. Achilles’ fingers curled into his hair as he turned in a slow circle, his expression twisted with guilt and self-hatred.

            “I’ve been raping you.”

            “No, Achilles, you haven’t, I _love_ you.”

            “That love was spawned from abuse, from rape. I’ve been manipulating you into loving me.”

            “I consented! I’ve never lied, ever!”

            “You didn’t want to—"

            “Don’t put words into my mouth!” Patroclus’ grief exploded into fury. “I loved every second of my time with you. Don’t insult me with your regret or soil our time together because of your guilt. Look into my eyes and tell me that I didn’t consent, that I didn’t want it.”

            Achilles opened his mouth to do so, but their gazes met and it snapped closed with a click of teeth.

            “You’re not getting paid for this. I asked Adonis if you were going to get paid and he said yes.”

            “Lying is like breathing for him. You’re not the first, nor the last to be deceived.”

            “Then you’re a slave here.”

            “I suppose.”

            “You’re coming with me.” Achilles grabbed Patroclus by the arm and made a move for the door, despite the fact that they were still both very much nude. “I’m not going to wait to get you out of here.”

            “Do you have the money to buy me?”

            “This is a jailbreak. You’re a person, not an object to be bought and sold.”

            “No!” Patroclus cried, wrenching away from him, and Achilles stopped in his tracks, aghast. “No, you can’t do that.”

            “Why not?!”

            “Because if it somehow goes wrong, he will punish me.”

            “Nothing will go wrong.”

            “How can you be so sure?”

            “Because I am Achilles, the _Aristos Achaion_.”

            “I’m not risking going to the White Room for your pride.” Patroclus’ voice trembled, and he backed away like a frightened animal. “I won’t do it.”

            “You’re a coward, then.”

            “I am stronger than you will _ever_ be in your entire _life_.” The words were out before he could take them back, but he was quivering with rage at this point, the ecstasy of their copulations suddenly feeling like a distant memory.

            Achilles’ lips twisted, though there was no real cruelty in it. His eyes were more frightened than defiant, more worried than angry. “Really now?”

            “You have never been strapped to a table and fucked by countless men until you’re bleeding, until you’re screaming and begging for mercy that will never come.” Patroclus stalked forward, jabbing an accusing finger at Achilles’ chest. “You’ve never been in so much agony that you want nothing more than to die and let the earth swallow you up, never hated yourself and your body more than you could ever hate your tormenters. Every choice I make is not out of cowardice, it’s for survival.”

            “Which is why you should come with me right here, right now; no more waiting or far-fetched promises. The gods have fated that I will die in this war, and I won’t die without seeing your face again. You’d make a great addition to the army. You’d never have to lay with anyone you don’t fancy ever again.”

            The offer was tempting, but he feared the consequences, feared the White Room. He’d heard of Achilles’ ability in rumor, but had never witnessed it for himself. He didn’t want to bet his sanity on the accounts of others.

            “No, I can’t. I wish I could. I…I’m so sorry.”

            Achilles looked absolutely wrecked, and his hands shook as they came up to cup Patroclus’ face, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “I’ll miss you.”

            “I’m s-sorry.” Tears started falling earnest, too many for Achilles to clean. “I’m so s-s-sorry.” He let out a choked sob. “I-I’m afraid.”

            “It’s alright.” Achilles pulled Patroclus into a tight embrace, and Patroclus buried his face into his shoulder. “It’s alright, I understand. I understand. Let’s just enjoy the remaining time we have together.”

            The rest of the morning was spent entangled in one another, desperately memorizing each other’s bodies and committing them to memory as they worshipped with their hands and mouths. The pleasure from his releases and the soft ‘I love yous’ shared between them did little to ease the pit in Patroclus’ stomach.

            A knock came at the door when the sun was high in the sky overhead. Achilles was already dressed, his chestplate expertly hidden in the space between the bathtub and the wall where Adonis wouldn’t find it.

            Patroclus sobbed raggedly, and Achilles’ face was contorted with rage, though his eyes were glassy.

            Adonis stepped inside. “Time’s up. I hope you had a wonderful time, _Aristos Achaion._ ”

            He gestured to the hall, and Achilles hesitated before planting one last kiss on Patroclus’ lips, murmuring, “Until next time, _philtatos._ ”

            Patroclus buried his face in his hands as Adonis lead Achilles to the door. Achilles moved like every step was like walking on broken glass, and he cast one last look over his shoulder, smiling softly, before it slammed shut behind him. He was gone, slipping through Patroclus’ hands like water through a sieve.

            “No!” Patroclus wailed, tears bursting forth as if from a dam and making his vision blur and swim. He ran to the door, trying the doorknob, but it was locked. “ _No!_ ”

            He slammed against it with his fists and slid down into a crumpled heap on the floor, squinting through the space beneath it as if to catch a final glance at his beloved, but the hall was empty.

            Patroclus wept and wept until his eyes dried up and he was hiccupping miserably, his fingers twisted in the silks that clothed him and his face blotchy and red. He had no idea what he was going to do now, no idea why he would ever continue life like this.

            There was a festering feeling in his stomach. Regret.

            If he’d taken Achilles up on his offer, this never would’ve happened. Had he not been so frightened, had he not feared the White Room like no other, he would be at Achilles’ side right now. Now he would be alone for the rest of his life, serving an endless stream of men who would never know him like Achilles had.

            Perhaps another rich prince would rent him for a day and he’d fall in love with him, too. The thought made Patroclus’ stomach roil in protest, and he ran to the toilet to retch, his sides heaving and his hands trembling.

            He rose to unsteady feet, stumbling back into the room and about to fling himself upon his bed like a scorned princess to cry for the rest of his life, when something caught his eye.

            It was Achilles’ bottle of northern spirits that he’d gifted to him yesterday afternoon, never once opened.

            Patroclus was drawn toward it like a moth to a flame, his expression horribly blank as his tears dried sticky on his cheeks.

            He took the neck of the bottle in hand, his eyes skimming over the foreign writing, and brought it back to the bathroom. He remembered something from one of the classes he’d taken as a prince, a long time ago. It was hardly a trustworthy memory to rely on, but it was enough to make hope expand in his chest.

            Patroclus opened up his cabinet and took out one of his many tins of makeup, full of colored powder. This powder, however, had made him sick the last time he’d put it on, and he knew exactly what it was. If his memory was correct, this could be his way out.

            He uncorked the bottle, the sharp scent of distilled grain smacking into him. He crinkled his nose, but a grin was spreading over his face.

            Using his fingernails, he scraped the powder into the bottle, watching the clear liquid turn ruddy. Once the tin was empty, he placed it back among the others and swirled the bottle until the powder had spread out evenly.

            Now, the moment of truth.

            He leaned down and sniffed at the bottle opening, and an unmistakable, sharp tang hit his nose.

            Poison.

            He’d just made a bottle of poison.

            When Patroclus was a prince, his father had made him take a class on how to identify poisons in his food and drink; what they smelled like, how they were made. His teacher always told him to beware liquor served by women with whom he’d fallen out of favor; certain kinds of their makeup, when added to the grain alcohol, turned it to a poison even more potent than nightshade or hemlock.

            He held the bottle in his hands like it was made of gold, like it was wrought by the gods from the light of a thousand suns.

            A knock came at the door.

            “Prince Patroclus!” Adonis cried from the other room, and his fingers tightened around the bottle. “There’s another client here to see you.”

            Patroclus’ expression darkened, and he slowly raised his head to lock eyes with himself in the mirror.

            A smile twisted his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it! A lot of stories I find with situations such as this one, the character always has to be saved by someone else. I wanted to completely change that; just because these characters are in this position shouldn't mean they're helpless to rescue themselves.


	2. The Red Hourglass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Graphic depictions of rape, mithridatism, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of suicide and homicide

**II.**

THE RED HOURGLASS

-

 

            “I don’t know what to do,” Achilles murmured as the sun touched the horizon, turning the sky to fire and the clouds to wisps of ash.

            The waves lapped gently against the shore, a mass of white froth and sparkling water, and the beach sprawled out before him in a jagged coastline of white sand and stone.

            “You’re being ridiculous,” Thetis growled, turning to him sharply. Her eyes looked like they were chipped from ice. “Listen to yourself. You sound like a child.”

            He’d had a feeling that she wouldn’t understand, and he’d been right. She was a goddess, and not even one who’d had a positive sexual encounter with a human before, so there wasn’t a chance she’d sympathize with him in any way, shape, or form. Gods simply didn’t feel like humans did; they were beings of light and stone, wielding immense power but closed off to emotions like statues.

            “I miss him.”

            “He’s a snake. Forget him.”

            “Don’t talk about my beloved like that.”

            “He’s not your beloved; he’s a whore you rented out in some den of iniquity. He’s probably fornicating with another man as we speak.”

            “And hating every second of it,” Achilles whispered.

            He fished a smooth stone out of the sand and tossed it into the water as if to knock Poseidon on the head and convince him to stop supporting the Trojans.

            “People at the camp are talking,” Thetis growled. “They snicker behind your back and talk of that lewd painting you always hold close to your heart.”

            Achilles bared his teeth. “Enough, mother. I don’t want to talk of this anymore.”

            “This whore is making a mockery of you,” she insisted, her eyes flashing and her hair rippling around her as if it was still underwater. “Throw that painting into the fire and be done with it. Or I’ll do it for you.”

            “You’ll do no such thing, not if you ever want to speak to me again.”

            “Your threats are empty.”

            “Are you so sure about that? You doubt my ability to be vindictive.”

            Thetis rose to her feet like the sail of a warship rising up over the horizon, towering over him, but he refused to look at her, tracing patterns in the sand with his finger.

            “I should travel back to that brothel and kill him.”

            “You’d be killing me, too,” Achilles murmured. “He’s the one thing preventing me from charging toward Hector and cutting him down so that he stops killing my comrades. I want to return from this war so badly, am hoping so hard to emerge alive, and it’s because I have to return to Patroclus and rescue him from that terrible place.”

            “Not even you can dodge your fate, Achilles. It’s _fate_ that you’ll die here. Fate is unwavering.”

            “It’s only unwavering when I say it’s unwavering,” Achilles snapped. “So that’s why I’m going to fight and fight and evade Hector at all costs.”

            “You’re making a mistake by getting your hopes up.”

            “I don’t have hope. I have determination. Those are two different things.”

            They sat in silence for a while longer, side by side at the water’s edge. Gulls circled overhead, calling out to one another even as the night sky revealed itself in a flurry of twinkling stars against a navy abyss.

            The light of the full moon bathed the world in a blue-white glow, reflecting off of the water like shimmering beacon. It was colder here, by the ocean. The wind battered them mercilessly and the frigid water kicked up on the rocks and spattered them with icy droplets.

            Behind him, the warm light of campfires and torches rose up among the tents, a welcoming sight as smoke drifted into the air and the smell of cooking food wafted over to him. But here, the scent of salt and brine was sharp against his nose, the homey firelight overcome by unfeeling moonlight.

            The firelight reminded him of Patroclus. When he was with him and in him, Achilles felt most like himself, most like he was at home. He was warm and his smile made him feel like the gods were looking down upon him with gladness, and his jokes and jibes made Achilles’ sides hurt from laughing.

            He didn’t have any of that laughter here in Troy. Troy was nothing to him. There was no one but his mother here who cared about him, and even then, Thetis was a poor example; his comrades all saw him as a weapon, a tool they could use to gain victory over Troy and emerge glorious. None of them saw him as a human.

            When Thetis finally retired back to the ocean, Achilles dragged himself to his feet and tromped back to his tent, suddenly realizing he was shivering. People greeted him when he returned to camp, and he returned those greetings halfheartedly as he retired back to his tent early without having eaten dinner.

            He crawled onto his pallet on the floor, which was thickly padded with luxurious blankets and furs raided from Trojan towns, and curled up without tucking himself in. They were cold, no one’d body heat having been there to warm it up.

            The candle that illuminated the space flickered and danced.

            Back at Elysium, the bed had smelled of Patroclus. Sure, there were other smells mixed in—heady perfume, sex, sweat, etcetera—but beneath all that had been the distinct scent of his lover, like a summer storm or a forest after rain.

            He wished he could’ve bottled up that scent and brought it with him, opening it up and getting drunk on it every night before he fell asleep, for surely smelling that welcoming, beautiful scent was better than smelling just his own.

            Like every other evening, Achilles reached out and grasped a rolled-up linen that he always kept out on his nightstand. His eyes fluttered closed as he unrolled it, but they couldn’t stay closed for long.

            Patroclus smiled at him mischievously from the linen, looking over his shoulder from a bed full of lush red pillows and blankets. He was completely naked, for surely Achilles would’ve _never_ allowed another artist to cover up the glory that was Patroclus’ body, and he tried to recall the feeling of holding him, of having his soft skin yield beneath his fingers.

            The paint was cracked and chipped in places from being rolled up, but Achilles was too afraid of people sneaking into his tent and desecrating it to keep it out in the open and displayed like it should be.

            There were also anomalies that Achilles didn’t like; the painter had made his nose smaller and his eyes larger, had replaced his hourglass figure with a glorified waif.

            Why had they erased his curves? They were one of his best attributes, the things that had helped Patroclus tempt and lure Achilles in in the first place.

            Despite its flaws, the painting—which had been _incredibly_ overpriced—was the only thing that Achilles had left of Patroclus, and he wondered if it would be the only way he would ever see him again.

            “I miss you,” he whispered, a tear slipping out of the corner of his eye.

            Patroclus remained silent, still smiling playfully, but Achilles could see through the veil. His eyes were sad, mournful.

            “I’m so sorry.”

            Achilles wept bitterly for him.

 

\----

 

            Patroclus collapsed onto the bathroom floor, coughing and retching into the toilet as his nose and eyes burned like they were filled with embers.

            There was a disgusting taste in his mouth, bitter and dry like ashes, but to Patroclus it was the taste of victory on the horizon. This was the first step toward something far, far greater than himself.

            He clutched the poison bottle in the hand that wasn’t steadying his weak, trembling body. The poison was the source of his pain at the moment, the source of the roiling in his gut and the blaze in his mouth and sinuses, but he reminded himself that this pain was temporary. In the end, this bottle would be the catalyst to his triumph.

            He’d served ten clients last night after Achilles had gone, and under any other circumstances, he would’ve wallowed in his misery and cried until Adonis sent him to the White Room. However, the constant reminder of the poison that had been tucked away behind the tub with Achilles’ chest plate had set his blood alight with the fire of hope.

            Patroclus planned on starting in small doses, sipping until he could gulp down whole mouthfuls without even a single complaint from his stomach. He did fear that he would accidentally rush and poison himself to death on accident, but it was better to take the risk and fail than to spend the rest of his life doing nothing.

            He rested his head on the toilet bowl, smiling to himself. Day one of however many was over.

            “Hey sweetheart,” a customer had crooned later that week.

            His name was Eustace. Or perhaps Eugene. Patroclus didn’t remember.

             “C’mere.” He curled a knobby finger toward Patroclus, rubbing his patchy beard as he patted the bed eagerly.

            Patroclus stalked over, his silks billowing around him like the invisible web of a venomous spider. Though his grin was playful, his eyes were blazing, but the customer was too horny to see the cruel twist of his mouth or the flex of his fingers that curled like claws.

            To Patroclus, this man was just another obstacle between him an Achilles, another obstacle preventing him from saving himself for his lover alone. His cool indifference toward his clients had sizzled away to reveal a raw, seething hatred.

            “Hey, handsome,” Patroclus purred, crawling up on his lap. “What brings you here?”

            “Wanna fuck you,” was the growled response, which was accompanied by a very, very uncomfortable and unsexy lip lick that was more like the smacking of chops after a big meal than a seductive preparation for a kiss.

            Patroclus hid his disgust behind a toothy smile, his dark eyes glinting like knife points. He wondered if, like a spider, he could entomb this man in a web and liquify his insides so he could suck them out through a straw.

            “Be my guest,” was his response instead, and the man grabbed Patroclus’ hips to pull him onto his lap.

            His hands were rough and demanding, bruises blooming under his fingertips, and Patroclus laughed and brought their lips together for a kiss.

            Immediately, the man recoiled, sputtering.

            “What’s wrong?” Patroclus asked teasingly as his smile turned feral.

            “You taste _disgusting,_ ” was the hissed reply, and Patroclus tried and failed to hide his sick glee when he was shoved away. “Get a breath mint or something.”

            “As you wish.” Patroclus went to his drawer and took out a small mint leaf to chew on, though he knew it would only help slightly.

            “Have you been drinking?”

            “What’s it to you?”

            “I’d prefer it if my lay was sober.”

            “I’m not allowed to drink,” Patroclus said slyly, dancing out of the way of the question, and he yelped when the man slapped him across the face.

            “Stupid whore! Get on the bed on your hands and knees!”

            It was a wonder how the man could look him in the eye and call him stupid when the cunning shined through his face like a grinning war mask. Patroclus obeyed, his fury clear in the hard line of his shoulders and rigid flex of the muscles in his back. He looked like a panther hidden beneath the confines of a human skin, pushing against its boundaries as if trying to claw his way out and devour the man slinking up behind him.

            The sex was rough and ungodly, and the man cackled as yelps and whimpers escaped Patroclus’ tightly sealed lips, his eyes burning with tears of hate as he felt the first seep of blood.

            When the man was finally done, he smacked Patroclus’ ass a little too hard for it to be considered playful.

            “Did you learn your lesson?”

            And suddenly Patroclus’ mind was back in the White Room, where he’d been soaked in his own blood and cowering in fear. Adonis had asked him that same question that night.

            He turned to regard the man with a face of stone and eyes like razors, gingerly rolling himself over and ignoring the sharp pain in his backside. He parroted, “Did I learn my lesson?”

            “That’s what I asked, bitch.”

            The man let out a shocked grunt when Patroclus dodged his open palm, uncurling like the coils of a rattlesnake and stalking over until they were eye to eye. “Your lessons cannot tame me in a way that matters.”

            The man went pale, and he staggered back like Patroclus had backhanded him across the face. His breathing was labored, his skin chalky and his hands trembling, for he had kissed Patroclus’ lips and bathed in his blood, both tainted by the ambrosia of the gods that Patroclus had brewed himself.

             “What did you do to me, you snake?”

            “I did nothing, though you did feel feverish when you were behind me. Perhaps you should visit a doctor.”

            The man said nothing, gathering up his clothes and never taking his eyes off of Patroclus as he dressed and sprinted out the door as fast as he could.

            The rest happened slowly.

            Patroclus could feel it like some sort of metamorphosis, like his body was dissolving and building itself back up anew.

            Where there was once a thrashing fly snagged in Adonis’ web, there was now a black widow, and may the gods pray for whoever dared to cross his path.

            He had a feeling that the clients, too, could sense the shift in him, could sense that his soft skin was merely an exoskeleton that cloaked a horror with eight eyes and glinting fangs. The newbies treaded carefully, and pretty soon the only ones who treated him like Eustace were the ones who didn’t have the brain capacity to think better of it. The repeat customers frowned a whole lot, puzzlement and fear warring for dominance in their eyes as they regarded the eldritch beast that seemed to be masquerading in the place of their pliant, meek whore.

            They didn’t seem to realize that he was no longer the prince that had to be saved from the clutches of a monster. He was the monster, and he would devour them whole.

            “Something about you has changed,” noted a frequent customer whose name Patroclus used to know but had since been too apathetic to remember. “You seem…different. Are you alright?”

            They hadn’t even bothered to take their clothes off, the act of Patroclus riding the man with recklessness concealed by the tumble of his silks over their joined hips. This man wasn’t a terrible man in any sense, one of the few that Patroclus grudgingly liked; he thought every cent he paid went directly to Patroclus and tipped very generously (of course, everything was going to Adonis, but it was the thought that counted), not to mention how he respected Patroclus’ boundaries and treated him like an actual human being.

            He’d come to Patroclus enough times for them to kind of get to know each other, and Patroclus knew that the only reason that the man came to Patroclus was because his wife had been forced to marry him at an incredibly young age despite his protests, and he would rather slum it up with a whore than dare to lay intimately with a girl who had only just barely shed her childhood.

            “I haven’t changed much. We met just last week,” he said breathlessly. The man was a good lay, he couldn’t lie, hitting all the right places as he bucked up into the glorious heat of Patroclus’ body. “Surely I haven’t changed since last week.”

            “Yes, but you seemed different last week, too. And the week before that. I’m not sure when it started, but you’re more…”

            Patroclus raised an eyebrow, his fingers twisting in the fabric of the man’s clothing.

            “I don’t know…dangerous.”

            Patroclus’ mouth twisted into a grin. “You could say that. I’ve really found a purpose in life. An ambition.”

            “That’s good for you.” The man leaned up to kiss him, shocked when Patroclus quickly pushed him away. “What’s the matter?”

            “I’ve got a chill. I’ve been sniffling all week, wouldn’t want you to catch it,” he lied.

            _This venom wasn’t made for people like you,_ he wanted to say, but he kept his lips sealed.

            The man smiled. “Thank you for being so considerate. Do you warn all of your clients when you have a cold?”

            Patroclus shook his head, and the two of them laughed up a storm for the rest of their time together.

            By that point, he’d used up about a quarter of the massive bottle. He’d reached a milestone where he could swallow a whole mouthful and only have to vomit later that night, and the spread of it from his body to those who’d touched his lips was more potent now.

            His clients often found themselves stumbling out after their appointment, pale and clutching their stomachs, though many of them assumed they’d just had something bad to eat or that the liquor they’d had at Elysium’s new wraparound bar had been cut with something.

            No one suspected anything at all, and if they did, Patroclus certainly wasn’t the center of the suspicion. After all, he was just Elysium’s prized whore, no?

            “You’re up to something,” Briseis said as she and the rest of the Anatolian girls did his makeup, and he grinned. “I’ve heard people whispering about how you’re cursed and spread your curse to your customers. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that the tin with the makeup that made everyone sick is empty.”

            “Observant,” he remarked, but didn’t offer up anything else.

            Briseis planted her hands on her hips. “What’s going on, Patroclus? What are you doing?”

            “I can’t tell you. Not now.”

            “Then when?”

            “You’ll understand when it happens.”

            “When what happens?”

            “You’ll see.”

            Briseis threw her arms up in the air with a frustrated growl, and Patroclus laughed, a laugh that was quickly cut short when Briseis jabbed an accusing finger at him. “See! You are up to something. That laugh isn’t your laugh.”

            “What do you mean it’s not my laugh? I laughed it, so hence it’s my laugh.”

            “It doesn’t sound like you.” Her anger had bled away into worry that made lines crease her face and the corners of her lips turn downward. “Not really.”

            “If it doesn’t sound like me, then what does it sound like?”

            “It sounds like the laugh of someone who’s willing to burn down the whole world.” She swallowed, putting her hand on Patroclus’ arm. “Your eyes are colder. There’s a cruel twist to your lips.”

            “Hey, maybe I’m starting to look more and more like my clients. You know how married couples start looking like each other? Does that still apply with sex?”

            “Stop joking!” Briseis punched him, and he recoiled, rubbing his arm. The lighthearted chatter of the other girls had faded, as if they could sense the tension in the air despite not really knowing the language. “This is serious. Are you alright? Is everything okay?”

            “I’m amazing, Briseis,” Patroclus told her with a grin. “I’ve never been better.”

            Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead. That was the wrong answer to say. “You’re scaring me.”

            “You’re not the one who should be afraid.”

            “You would’ve never said something like that before. It’s like another man has crawled into your skin and is masquerading as you. Where’s Patroclus?”

            “I’m right here!” he bellowed, frustrated. Tears sprung to his eyes, and Briseis’ face softened. His voice broke, “I…I’m right here.”

            The spider had gone, leaving his terrified old self in its place. He wrung his hands, his shoulders sagging. His fury, his desperation to see Achilles again, had been fueling him. He hadn’t realized that his loneliness and misery that he’d always had still remained, even with his vengeance crowding to the forefront of his mind.

            He was tired.

            “It’s about Achilles, isn’t it?” she murmured, sitting down beside him and wrapping her arm around his shoulders as he slumped against her. “You’ve been acting strange since he left.”

            “I miss him so much,” he whispered. He’d been so busy working on retribution that he’d forgotten to grieve, forgotten to _feel._ “I…I…”

            He felt weak and had to remind himself that the emotions brewing inside of him weren’t weak; they were what normal people were supposed to feel, but he still felt pitiful as he buried his face in his hands.

            “I just want to get out of here. I want to go home.” Home, of course, didn’t mean back to his father; his home would be wherever Achilles wound up. Perhaps on the beaches of Troy.

            “I know, me too.”

            From that point forward, Patroclus allowed the beast he’d built up around himself to fall away whenever he was around Briseis. It was these moments that kept him truly human, and he didn’t think that that would’ve been the case had he tried shoving her away.

            Nevertheless, his reign of terror continued.

            Man after man after man came to lay with them, and all of them had a wonderful time holding and kissing him to their liking. They enjoyed themselves immensely during the sex—Patroclus made sure of that—but afterward, while they were tugging their clothes back on and struggling through the fog in their heads, they’d be frowning, their foreheads beaded with sweat and their bodies wracked with shivers.

            Patroclus eventually became so toxic that the mere act of touching him was a risk, for his sweat had also turned poisonous. His clients didn’t just have to kiss him on the mouth anymore for the venom to take its hold, and Patroclus would often spend his time off in the bathtub, laughing to himself in an empty room as he thought of the countless men who’d be in their bathrooms at that very moment vomiting.

            This went on for a while. He told the customers whom he liked to stop seeing him, whispering of syphilis and the clap, and relished in torturing the ones he hated, making extra sure to slobber and sweat all over them until their eyes were bloodshot and their muscles seized up.

            Eustace stopped coming after a while because he couldn’t even drag himself out of bed after he’d slept with Patroclus, an event that he celebrated with his friends and a stolen bottle of wine. It was so odd to drink from a liquor bottle and not taste the bitterness of his ambrosia on his lips.

            “Whatever you’re doing, Patroclus, it’s good,” Briseis finally admitted, and he grinned from ear to ear. Her validation was worth more to him than a trillion praises from the men who came to his bed. “I don’t like what it does to you, but I think the results you’re getting.”

            The compliment wasn’t just about Eustace, of course; it came in the wake of Patroclus’ time with a client—Ronan, his name was—who usually preferred Briseis but wanted to give the famous whore prince a try.

            He’d heard of this client, heard of his crimes and saw the ugly marks he left across his friend’s skin and the skins of the countless other people in Elysium he’d dragged to the bed. That’s why, when he heard that Ronan had booked him instead, he was ecstatic.

            He made the room look nice, fluffed up the pillows and swept the floor, and put on his best silks, the same ones he’d worn when Achilles had been with him and hadn’t adorned since.

            The moment Ronan walked in, he told Patroclus. “I’m going to fuck you, but I want you to fight me.”

            “What?” Patroclus had gotten all dolled up, ready to play the part of some meek little bitch so he could lure him into a false sense of security, only to have his plan crumble in the face of some disgusting kink.

            “You heard what I said, bastard.”

            He’d only ever been called a bastard by a handful of people—bitch was usually preferred—and the word stung him like a hornet that had caught him unawares.

            “Excuse me?”

            “I said that you’re going to fight me. You’re going to kick and scream and bite and do anything you can to get away.”

            “I’m not a rape fantasy,” Patroclus hissed, pretending to pout, but it was borderline a grimace. “I’ll do whatever you want without all that fuss.”

            “That’s not what I want. And if you don’t do what I want, I’ve paid five hundred extra to beat you into unconsciousness.”

            Patroclus’ mouth fell open, but he folded his arms over his chest stubbornly. “No. I’m going to lie down however you want me and you’re going to do what you’d like. There’s no way I’m disturbing the whole building by making trouble.”

            “Unconsciousness it is, then.”

            Patroclus leapt to his feet as Ronan cracked his knuckles, advancing on him like a bear advancing on a doe with a broken leg.

            “You’re making a mistake,” Patroclus hissed, trying to hide his fear even as his voice wavered. “Don’t do this.”

            “You don’t even deserve to speak to me,” Ronan bellowed. “Even though I’m a commoner, I’m worlds better than a whore prince!”

            Patroclus froze, his eyes wide, and cried out when a blow to the head sent him staggering. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t fight back with his fists, for surely Adonis would send him to the White Room.

            He ducked under a series of vicious swings, making a beeline for the door and slamming his fists against it. “Help! Help me!”

            Ronan grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back, nailing him in the face so hard he crumbled to the ground, stars exploding in his vision. Ronan loomed overhead, his shadow falling over Patroclus, whose quivering mouth and terrified eyes had been replaced by an expression of unadulterated hatred.

            When Ronan tried to swing at him again, Patroclus flipped himself over and kicked out at his kneecap. The man cursed, clutching his leg as Patroclus scrambled to his feet and smacked him, though it felt like his palm was striking a brick wall rather than a human face.

            Before Ronan could recover, he shoved him back into the wall. Patroclus raised his fist, ready to knock the fucker right in the crown jewels, when he realized that Ronan wasn’t as dazed as he’d thought.

            He seized Patroclus’ wrist before he could blink, and Patroclus was blinded by his fear and rage, kicking and spitting and shouting at the top of his lugs as they fought like animals. It was clearly an unfair fight, for Patroclus hadn’t been allowed to grow much muscle in a place that valued softness, and he cursed his weak body as Ronan easily overpowered him and dragged him to the bed.

            Patroclus struggled as hard as he could, writhing like a serpent caught in the clutches of an eagle, and Ronan tossed him onto the mattress like he was nothing.

            He landed on his stomach heavily, and before he could rise, Ronan was on top of him, ripping his prized silks apart and tossing the shreds on the ground. He was too shocked and dismayed to feel upset; he’d sauntered right into Ronan’s trap.

            Now that he knew what was going on, he allowed the sheets to swallow him up; they rose up to meet him, cowing him like that drug the man had given him all those months ago.

            “Keep struggling or I’m not using oil.”

            “What?!” Patroclus twisted in the man’s grip, but rough hands shoved him back onto his stomach. “No!”

            Ronan prodded at him with something that wasn’t very big but was very, very dry.

            “Hey! You can’t do this!” Patroclus yelled, his fists flailing and connecting with any part of Ronan’s body he could find. “ _No!_ ”

            He shoved in anyway, and the agony that he felt was comparable to what he’d felt in the White Room.

            The shriek that ripped itself out of his throat was unlike any noise he’d ever heard from a human being, and he thrashed even as Ronan’s whole weight bore down onto him and pressed all of the air out of his lungs like he was in a vice.

            “Get off! Get off!” Patroclus’ fingernails scrabbled uselessly at Ronan’s arms. “ _Get off!_ ”

            “You’re worthless!” was the bellowed response as he pounded into him so hard, he could feel his insides getting ripped to shreds. “How could you mess up so badly as to end up here, beneath me? Some prince!”

            “Stop!” Patroclus begged. “Stop it!”

            Blood had started slicking the way, and the heady tang of it in the air made Patroclus’ head spin as it soaked into the sheets beneath him.

            “Aww, is the poor little whore upset! You’d make a great woman with number of tears you cry, Patroclus. Take it like a man!”

            Patroclus screams were broken by a ragged sob and a desperate gasp for air. 

            “Being honest, I just like seeing you cry. Cry some more for me, sweetheart, you’re doing beautifully.”

            “ _Stop!_ ” Patroclus wailed, but Ronan only threw back his head with a cackle, his sides heaving with laughter against Patroclus’ back. “ _Sto-op.”_

Eventually, when his cries for mercy were all answered with snide remarks and withering insults, he stopped trying. He went limp beneath Ronan, staring off emptily as his mind zeroed in on the absolute and utter agony he was in.

            “Giving up on me, huh? You’re not getting away that easily.” He somehow managed to drive forward harder, and Patroclus was ripped back into the conscious world, trembling and crying out for Briseis and Achilles and his mother and father.

            It was weakness, but he hardly cared at this point.

            Ronan came with a bellow and quickly withdrew, leaving Patroclus slumped and shaking among the sheets, which now bloomed with so much red that Patroclus was pretty sure he was going to die.

            For a few moments he wondered if he should run to the bathroom, smash the bottle of poison on the sink and use the glass to shred his wrists, but fury burst above that fear and sorrow before it could fester, erupting from him like a phoenix rising from its own ashes.

            “Bye, gorgeous. I think you might be my new favorite.” Ronan staggered when he tried to lace up his sandals, his brow furrowing and his face whiter than freshly-fallen snow.

            “Wait,” Patroclus rasped, beckoning Ronan over. “A kiss, to remember me by.”

            Before Ronan could protest, he grabbed his face and clashed their lips together, invading his mouth with his tongue and lapping at his lips.

            Ronan recoiled and swallowed, taking Patroclus’ saliva down with his own, and the moment he did so, he coughed and blood splattered onto his hand.

            “I suggest you go,” Patroclus hissed, and Ronan didn’t need to be told twice.

            Later, he learned that Ronan had died, coughing up his lungs into the toilet while his wife stood by and watched with a smile on her face.                       

            It all came to a head the next night.

            It was storming outside. The gods were angry.

            Lightning split across the sky, illuminating the ghastly silhouettes of the surrounding buildings for a single moment before plunging them back into darkness, only the golden windows remaining. Wind screamed across the city, rattling at the windows and clawing at the walls as it demanded to be let in, and Patroclus felt like the floorboards were shaking with the force of it.

            Rain unleashed itself in a torrential downpour, pelting the glass panes and trickling through cracks in the ceiling. It’s rapping against the window sounded like the thundering hooves of a thousand cavalry or the thrum of a thousand hearts, and it made the world outside look like it was bleeding together like wet paint.

            Patroclus wandered over to a leak in the ceiling, lifting his face up so that the water splashed and settled like tears on his cheeks. It’d been so long since he’d felt rain, and the hum of noise made for a very comforting ambience.

            The next client would be pleased by the romanticism of it, but for some reason no one had come in yet. It was so odd to be alone during his work hours, and he’d taken two huge swigs from his bottle of poison beforehand, which had made him feel queasy but powerful.

            He’d chewed three mint leaves to get rid of the taste in his mouth.

            His father had always told him that inclement weather meant that something important was going to happen, whether for better or for worse, so when Adonis walked in, he was hardly surprised.

            “You’re sick,” were the first words out of his mouth, and Patroclus’ heart launched itself up into his throat, his peacefulness from beforehand shattering to pieces.

            “I’m…I’m sick?” he repeated, wringing his hands.

            Thunder rumbled, the sound of the rain intensifying.

            “You’re transmitting your sickness to your clients. People are coming to me complaining of lightheadedness and nausea after having lain with you. Many outright stated that you had a sickness, but I didn’t believe them until Ronan’s death.”

            “I’m so sorry…I…I didn’t know.”

            “I’m not so sure about that.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Get on the bed.” Adonis watched with eyes like razors as Patroclus quickly obeyed. “I’m going to check you out. Stay still.”

            He clambered over him and unceremoniously hiked up his silks so that they were bunched up on his chest, and Patroclus’ breath hitched. This was it. He knew what he had to do.

            “I think you knew you had a disease and wanted it to spread to as many people as possible before I found out.”

            “I don’t have a disease,” he insisted. “It must be one of the other residents. I check myself daily and there hasn’t been any sign—”

            “Silence.”

            Patroclus grimaced as Adonis prodded at him and narrowed his eyes to check for any signs of something transmitted through intercourse. He searched for a while, and Patroclus had to hide his sneer as Adonis’ brows slowly drew together.

            “I don’t see anything…”

            “I told you—”

            “…but that doesn’t mean you’re clean. A young, healthy man like Ronan wouldn’t drop dead after a session with you without it being something.”

            “It’s nothing!” Patroclus insisted, sitting up and feigning indignance.

            “If it was nothing, I wouldn’t be losing clients!” Adonis bellowed, launching to his feet and jabbing an accusing finger at Patroclus, as if he blamed him for getting a sickness transmitted by a client he couldn’t’ve denied in the first place. “The reason I’m here isn’t because of Ronan; that cheap scoundrel needs someone to take a shit on his grave. No, it’s because you’re not booked for the rest of the night. No one wants to see you anymore because word’s gotten around that you have the clap.”

            “But I don’t! That’s ridiculous!”

            “You must have _something!_ ” Adonis threw his hands up into the air, pacing like an animal. “It might not have any visible symptoms.”

            “Maybe it’s someone else! Ronan has lain with many of the residents here.”

            “Yeah, but why hasn’t he died before now! There’s something suspicious going on with you, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it!”

            “Well, you won’t find anything.” His anger melted off of his face but still burned in his eyes, even as he lowered his lashes. Lightning made the sky blaze white, throwing ghastly shadows across his face. “Come on, can we just forget this? It’s nothing, I promise.”

            Adonis swallowed. Both of them were suddenly very much aware of how Adonis himself had never lain with Patroclus, despite matchmaking eager clients for him for so long.

            He slid off the bed and sauntered over to Adonis, who watched wide-eyed. It reminded him of Achilles, in a sense, and the thought of his beloved only made the fire in his gut burn brighter.

            “You know, I’ve never had the chance to be with you, after all this time.”

            “It’s been almost a year and a half,” Adonis agreed, and Patroclus swallowed with difficulty.

            A year and a half. A year a half of his life torn to shreds and in ruin around him.

            He forced a smile, sidling up close and putting a hand on Adonis’ chest. “You said we had the whole evening. Perhaps…”

            He let the sentence trail off as his eyes flicked up to him.

            “You might be sick. I don’t want to catch that.”

            “For the last time, I’m not sick,” Patroclus drawled, pressing closer as he worried on his lip. “At least, not in the way you think.”

            Poison wasn’t sickness.

            Patroclus was weaving an intricate web with his words, one that closed in on Adonis the more he remained in this room with him. One false move, one false string plucked and Patroclus could be sent to the White Room or worse.

            He wondered what would’ve happened if he’d actually had the clap. He thought back to Kiera, a girl on the first floor who seldom came out of her room but was very sweet, who’d contracted herpes not a few months prior. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her in a while. Nobody’d spoken of her absence or even noticed it.

            _They kill you,_ he realized, his jaw clenching. _They kill you if you can’t work._

            He could feel some primal force rising up from behind them, like the shadow of a spectral wolf crouched over him with bared teeth and bristling hackles.

            Even as the wolf howled, calling the pack to the hunt as it closed in on its prey, Patroclus bared his neck meekly, his hands sliding up Adonis’ arms to clutch his broad, muscular shoulders.

            “Do you find me attractive, sir?” he murmured, his words barely rising above the thrum of the rain.

            “I…of course.”

            “Hm, you had a good way of hiding it. Sometimes I thought you didn’t want me at all.” He pressed closer so that their chests were touching, Adonis’ breath fanning over his face. “But I knew. I could see the sparkle in your eye whenever you walked in early and caught me getting pounded into the mattress.”

            A single bead of sweat made its way down Adonis’ temple, and Patroclus went up on his tippy toes to lap it away, a sultry smile twisting his lips. “You liked it, didn’t you? Seeing me debauched and needy? You must’ve wished it was you between my legs and not my client.”

            Adonis nodded breathlessly, and Patroclus brought their lips together for the first time, allowing Adonis to claim his mouth in however debauching a method he pleased; the more their tongues mingled, the more Patroclus’ venom coursed through his system.

            “Your mouth tastes odd. Minty, but…not.”

            “Bad breath, perhaps. My apologies.”

            Patroclus slowly started to undo Adonis’ belt, pulling at his clothing insistently.

            “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

            “Who said anything about should? We _can_ do this, and that’s all that matters.”

            Adonis grabbed Patroclus’ wrists before his belt could slide off. “No. My clothes are staying on. I don’t want someone to walk in and catch me stark naked with one of my own whores.”

            “As you wish.” Patroclus stepped back his hands sliding down his thighs to grab the hem of his silks. “Does that ‘clothes on’ rule apply to me as well?”

            “No, of course not.”

            Patroclus shed his silks painfully slowly, teasing, until they pooled around his feet in a translucent halo.

            _Like snake skin,_ he thought with a twisted smile.

            That dark delight displayed so plainly on his face was easily mistaken for lust, so Adonis remained painfully ignorant as his eyes raked over Patroclus’ body.

            Without warning, Adonis lunged for him, grabbing his hips and slamming him against the wall. Patroclus hissed, all of the air leaving him in a rush and his bones rattling, and for a few moments he was worried that Adonis had somehow figured him out and was going to hurt him, but his mouth was fused to his own, claiming it wholly and completely.

            Patroclus gasped and wrapped his legs around Adonis’ waist, tugging and pulling at the man’s hair. His beard was grating against his skin like sandpaper, and Patroclus grimaced over Adonis’ shoulder even as he peppered his neck with kisses.

            Adonis shoved his hips against him, pressing him harder against the wall, and Patroclus nibbled at his ear and threw his arms around his neck.

            Adonis was just fumbling with the hem of his robes when suddenly his knees gave out and they both tumbled to the floor. Thunder rumbled, and the leak in the ceiling drip, drip, dripped away.

            Adonis blinked owlishly, rubbing his head.

            “Are you alright?” Patroclus asked, feigning worry, and he took Adonis’ head in his hands. “Do you feel okay?”

            “Just got a little lightheaded.”

            “Do you want me to stop? Perhaps this—”

            “No, no. Let’s just move to the bed.”

            Patroclus rose to his feet and laid down on his back, watching Adonis with hunger in his eyes as the man crawled up and plastered himself over Patroclus in a gesture that could only be described as ownership.

            Little did Adonis know that this hunger wasn’t from lust or eagerness. It was the hunger of a serpent ready to devour its meal whole and grind its bones to dust.

            “You know, I was thinking of retiring you,” Adonis murmured, his breath hot on Patroclus’ face, and Patroclus swallowed around the lump that had sprung into his throat. “Maybe bringing you somewhere else.”

            “Where?” Patroclus asked, sounding nonchalant, but fear had spurred his heart into a frantic rhythm.

            Moving somewhere else meant he could be brought to a place farther away from Achilles than Elysium was. Furthermore, Patroclus knew Elysium like the back of his hand, knew the guards, the clients, the cleaners, and the other residents. But if he was moved, he would be in a whole knew ballpark; he’d have to spend just as much time there to listen, observe, and learn in order to find a way out, and the last thing he wanted was for all of his progress to be shattered.

            _You wouldn’t be able to bring Achilles’ chestplate or your poison bottle,_ he realized and he gasped softly, though it had sounded like it had come as a result of Adonis laving his tongue over one of Patroclus’ nipples.

            “I was thinking my house in the countryside. I was thinking that maybe…” He trailed off, kissing his way down Patroclus’ chest and stomach. “I could make you my wife.”

            “Wife?” Patroclus repeated, going cold all over. He tried to hide his horrified shock, but the way his erection flagged made it perfectly clear of how he felt.

            Adonis tutted like he was reprimanding a child, propping himself up on his elbows and planting a chaste kiss onto Patroclus’ lips. “I know it sounds preposterous, but I’ve gotten rich off of you. Because I owe you my fortune, it only makes sense to reward you for it.”

            _You call enslaving me to you forever a reward?_ he thought. _Women alone can be strong, but wives are slaves in this country. Better off here, where my slavery is acknowledged, than in your home where it’s dismissed and perceived as normal._

            “I…I don’t think…”

            “You don’t think you’d make a good wife?” Adonis promoted with a chuckle, running his hands up and down Patroclus’ sides. “Nonsense. All you have to do is learn how to cook and clean and you’ll be the best wife anyone has ever met. I’ll be the _erastes_ to your _eromanos._ ”

            “But I—”

            “Hear me out. You stay in the house and can wander around my ten acres of property, even tend a garden if you’d like. You’ll clean the house and cook while I’m gone and then when I come home, I’ll shower you with gifts and kisses and love and fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”

            “I’m not sure—”

            “And if one of the girls here gets pregnant again, I won’t kill it. I’ll let her have her baby and then give it to you to raise as your own. Wish I could fuck you full of babies myself, but we both know that can’t happen unless Aphrodite is feeling particularly gracious.”

            “Listen, I—”

            “Shh,” Adonis pressed his finger to Patroclus’ lips, and Patroclus’ fury burst forth white-hot. “Let me fuck you, and then you can give your answer. Perhaps I can change your mind between now and then.”

            _Highly unlikely,_ Patroclus thought, but he grinned instead and watched Adonis slick himself up, not even considering prepping Patroclus first. _You’re an imbecile._

Adonis swayed when he rose to his knees and prepared to push in, nearly collapsing on top of Patroclus as his body was wracked with coughs.

            “I’ve been feeling under the weather lately,” he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he made up a frivolous excuse and dismissed his symptoms without Patroclus even having to intervene and assure him it was fine.

            How had this man been intelligent enough to keep him imprisoned all these years?

            “Happens to the best of us.” Patroclus tried to make his voice sound sympathetic, but inside he was beaming.

            More lightning. More thunder. The gods must’ve been furious.

            It took a few jabs, but eventually Adonis had sheathed himself inside of Patroclus’ body, trembling and groaning. He’d gone deathly pale, his lips white and his eyes bloodshot, but the pleasure he was feeling overwhelmed his dizziness.

            It stung slightly, but Patroclus was still open from his clients earlier that day, and at least he’d used oil. His mind wandered back to Ronan, and the corners of his lips quirked as the thought about that man dying in agony.

            “Oh…” Adonis’ eyes were fluttering wildly, and he didn’t even look to Patroclus for permission as he started shoving into him, slamming his hips forward and making Patroclus’ jaw clench. “You feel amazing.”

            “So do you,” he replied breathlessly, clutching Adonis’ burning body. It wasn’t just flushed with exertion; Patroclus could clearly feel how his skin sizzled with fever. “I wish I could do this every day. Every hour. Every second.”

            Patroclus moaned softly, mouthing along Adonis’ neck and kissing him passionately.

            For a man who ran a brothel, he didn’t last very long.

            After about two minutes of fucking with reckless abandon, Adonis came with a shout and collapsed on top of Patroclus, who yelped as his ribcage was suddenly crushed.

            Adonis didn’t pull out right away, breathing hard and even trying to start again before he (thankfully) decided against it.

            “If I were your husband…” he exhaled heavily, sounding like he’d just sprinted to Troy and back. His heart was pounding a little too fast, his breaths coming out a little too quick. “…I’d do that every day.”

            _That wasn’t much, buddy,_ he thought. Aloud, he said, “That would be nice.”

            Adonis grinned toothily, his sides still heaving. “The first day you arrive at my home, I’ll do it again and again and again. You’ll be so tired and spent but I’ll keep doing it, even if you fell asleep. By the time I’m done, you’ll be so sore and sloppy you won’t even be able to get out of bed.”

            “Perhaps…”

            “I’d also shove—” Adonis was wracked with coughs, and Patroclus knew what was coming when he suddenly inhaled shakily and let out a hacking cough that splattered blood across Patroclus’ face and chest.

            The roar of the rain rose in a deafening crescendo.

            Adonis’ eyes widened, and he launched to his feet, stumbling back like he’d landed on hot coals. He doubled over, coughing and coughing, and Patroclus rose to his feet, unable to keep the grin off of his face.

            The time for pretending was done. It was finally over.

            “What did you do to me, bitch?!” Adonis shrilled, and Patroclus’ grin only widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his teeth flashed like razors. More blood splattered onto the ground. “Answer me!”

            And suddenly his fury was rising up, bursting forth like fire from the mouth of a dragon.

            “I will no longer be your slave!” he screeched, his fist colliding with Adonis’ face, and the man reeled, collapsing like a tree during a hurricane.

            “Guards! Guar—” Patroclus clapped his hand over Adonis’ mouth, crying out when the man dug his teeth in. He managed to rip it away before he could bite out any chunks of flesh, but now his blood was in Adonis’ mouth and trickling from his palm.

            Poor bastard was only speeding up his demise.

            Making sure Adonis was busy writhing and seizing, Patroclus flew to the door and locked it from the inside in case any guards had heard him, sliding a dresser in front of it just to make sure.

            He turned and found Adonis upon him, screeching like a demon soaked with holy water as something slashed him across the face.

            A knife, the one that Adonis always kept in a pouch in his belt. He’d known this! Why hadn’t he thought of trying to remove it?! His pride and triumph had blinded him.

            “There, now no one will ever want you now,” Adonis cackled as blood streamed down Patroclus’ cheeks and jaw.

            It felt like someone had put a line of embers across his face and blown on them so that they’d burst into flames, and he screamed, covering his face with his hands and feeling the blood gush through his fingers, staining his hands red.

Adonis swung again, and Patroclus was too slow to dodge as he carved another wound that nearly skewered his eye and blinded him. “I’m gonna slice you up until you’re nothing but a hunk of flesh!”

            Patroclus threw arms up to block another blow that sliced across his forearms and nearly nicked his wrists, the pain leaping across his skin like crashing waves.

            His heart pounded so hard he feared it would burst through his chest and tumble to the floor, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs as adrenaline surged through his veins.

            Lightning burst outside, thunder shrieking so loudly his ears rang.

            He couldn’t die. Not now, not when he was so close.

            If he was going to get back to Achilles, he couldn’t just rely on his poisonous body anymore. He had to fight, and if he couldn’t fight, he’d die trying.

            He made a break for the dark bathroom, despite how his whole body was trembling and how he could barely see through the blood that stung his eyes like a swarm of angry wasps.

            Adonis lumbered after him like a wounded bear, shouting curses and calling for the guards who slammed against the door but couldn’t move the dresser.  

            Lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating the bathroom for a split second before plunging it back into darkness.

            Patroclus ran to the tub and tried to wrestle the poison bottle out from its hidden place, but it was stuck, and sweat streamed down his body as he pulled and yanked desperately at its neck.

            One of Adonis’ blind swings shattered the mirror to bits, the glass tinkling as it rained onto the floor and split into a million sparkling fractals.

            The knife licked like fire across his back as Adonis lunged for him, and he let it. Better his back than his stomach, though the wound only contributed to his mounting agony. Adonis was terribly weak now, silhouetted against the light of the bedroom as he dragged himself forward like some sort of coughing parasite, and his flailing knife glinted like the scythe of Death.

            Patroclus shrieked as the knife slashed his shoulder. The bottle was not coming loose.

            _Pull! Pull! Pull!_ his mind wailed. _Pull or he’s going to kill you!_

Tears streamed down his face as the world blurred and tilted, shock and blood loss making his head spin, and he let out a sob as he turned to face Adonis, who was now crouched over him like a beast ready to devour him.

            Funny how the predator had become the prey.

            “No, no,” he wept.

            “You’re gonna…you’re gonna…” His beard was soaked in blood, his eyes crazed.

            Adonis raised his knife, and Patroclus braced for the inevitable when suddenly Adonis’ body seized up. He coughed hard.

            Once.

            Twice.

            Then he made a choking sound and a burst of blood erupted from his mouth like someone had cut open a vein in his throat, splashing across Patroclus’ chest.

            Patroclus let out a cry of alarm as Adonis’ eyes rolled up and he collapsed on top of him, dead.

            Their blood mingled, and Patroclus found that there was nothing to do but scream. He was drenched from head to toe, his whole body in agony and the weight of a corpse pressing down on top of him.

            But he’d won. Adonis was dead. It was all over.

             He screamed for a long time, but eventually the screaming bled into laughter.

            Brazen, hysterical laughter.

            As the guards slammed on the door, Patroclus cackled like a crow in the trees or a witch on her broom, throwing his head back and laughing so hard his sides hurt and tears streamed down his face, leaving tracks in the blood that had settled there.

            Shoving Adonis’ body off of him, he staggered to unsteady feet, still chuckling to himself, and spat on the corpse for good measure.

            When he tottered over to the mirror like a newborn foal, carefully avoiding the mine field of glass at his feet, he saw a thousand reflections of himself in the cracked glass. His face was mangled by two jagged cuts that were still bleeding heavily, but his eyes were bright, almost feverish, and his grin was feral.

            Despite the blood slathering the rest of his face, Patroclus’ forehead was surprisingly clean, and he reached up with a bloodied thumb.

            With as much finesse as he could muster with a trembling hand, he painted a red hourglass onto his forehead with Adonis’ blood. The mark of the black widow.

            He would’ve basked in his glory for days and attached Adonis’ corpse to the back of a chariot so he could drag him around the city, but he had work to do.

            The place was still swarming with guards, all who would clamor to take control when they figured out Adonis was dead, and if Patroclus was going to break out, he’d need to be prepared; there was no way he was going to let himself lose now that he’d killed Adonis.

            After padding back to his room and putting his silks back on, he fished Achilles’ chestplate from its spot wedged between the tub and the wall, dusting it off reverently. A lion’s head snarled at him from the breast, its eyes studded with rubies and wreathed by olive branches, and Patroclus pressed his face against it as if to pick up some shred of Achilles’ scent, but it had long since dissipated.

            He brushed off his sorrow before it could build up and send him spiraling into a fit of grief, strapping the chestplate on and struggling to fit the straps so that it didn’t sag off of his soft frame. Perhaps when he was in Achilles’ army, he could build up some real muscle.

            When he looked down at himself, he didn’t seem like a glorious soldier. A whore playing make-believe, perhaps, but certainly not a warrior. If not for the blood, he probably wouldn’t’ve seemed intimidating in the slightest.

            He needed something big, something that would send the guards running before they could process how pitifully armed he was.

            His eyes flicked to Adonis’ slumped corpse, then to the knife, which had slipped out of his limp fingers.

            A plan hatched in his mind.

            It took a while to saw Adonis’ head from his body, and by that point the guards had left, assuming Adonis had gotten everything under control. He had to use a lot of muscle to get his flimsy shank to cut through the man’s disgustingly thick neck, blood spurting everywhere until Patroclus’ arms were soaked up to the elbow.

            “Ugh,” Patroclus groaned as the knife grated against Adonis’ spine. He threw all of his weight against the blade, knowing fully well he couldn’t cut through the spine and had to crack it instead. “Ughhhh…”

            After much toiling, the spine finally snapped and the rest of the way was easy sailing. Adonis’ head disconnected from his body with a disgusting squelch, blood bursting and soaking the bathroom floor in a river of blood.

            Patroclus grinned as he curled his fingers into Adonis’ hair and held it up before the empty room, bellowing in triumph.

            It was now or never. He was going to walk through those doors or die trying.

            The rain had stopped, and now there was silence except for the blood pounding in his ears to the rhythm of his heart. A crow cried out somewhere in the night, and a moan drifted up from the floorboards beneath him, but otherwise there was a deathly quiet, like the quiet usually reserved for graveyards.

            His whole body trembling with anticipation and perhaps a bit of fear, Patroclus held his head high and marched over to the door, wielding the knife in one hand and Adonis’ severed head in the other.

            There was some awkward fumbling as he shoved the dresser out of the way, but then the door was looming before him like the jaws of death. Patroclus tilted his chin up, taking in a wavering breath.

            He sent a quick prayer to the gods, thanking them for helping him and apologizing for all the times he’d cursed them in this terrible place, and then reached his mind out to Achilles, knowing fully well that they couldn’t connect telepathically but hoping that he could at least try.

            _I’m coming, my love,_ he thought.

 

\----

 

            Achilles sat bolt upright, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs. He’d fallen asleep with the picture of Patroclus in his arms again, but there was a bad feeling churning in his gut.

            When he held up the linen, Patroclus’ gaze wasn’t mischievous any longer, but rather warning. There was a fire in his eyes that Achilles hadn’t noticed before, a burning anger that was pent-up and ready to burst forth like a bolt of lightning.

            Something was happening to Patroclus, and Achilles’ heart sank, for he didn’t know what.

            He prayed that he’d be alright.

 

\----

 

            Patroclus burst from his room with an ungodly bellow that sounded like a clap of thunder, his orange silks billowing around him like a whirling inferno.

            The residents in the other rooms threw their doors open, shock and horror on their faces as Patroclus raised the severed head of Adonis and cried, “Justice!”

            And all at once their fear was fear no longer.

            “Justice!” they roared, their eyes blazing. “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

            They streamed into the hall in various states of undress, their clients cowering as they shattered their mirrors and ripped apart their bedframes in search of weapons. Armed with splinters of wood and jagged bits of glass, they rallied behind Patroclus as he stormed down the hall like a general into battle, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

            Each floor brought new faces, and Briseis gasped when she saw Patroclus marching ahead, his face contorted with fury as he chanted with the mob. “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

            By the time they reached the main lobby, almost all of Elysium’s whores were there, brandishing their makeshift weapons as their rage simmered in the air like a physical heat.

            The men in the waiting room screamed as Patroclus leapt onto the bar. In his dazzling golden armor and bloody war paint, he looked like an angry god coming to exact divine vengeance upon them.

            He thrust Adonis’ head forward like Perseus with the head of Medusa, and all the men in the room, clients and guards alike, froze as if turned to stone.

            “We are slaves no longer!” he screeched, the red hourglass standing out starkly against his skin like the mark of hell. “We are free!”

            The residents bellowed their approval, their silks whirling like waves on the open sea. Never before had Patroclus seen such hatred in people’s eyes, such fervor. These were the faces of those who’d been downtrodden just like him, and they were counting on Patroclus to lead them to victory.

            The guards took up a defensive line as the clients fled like flies scuttling away from the jaws of the black widow, and although their clubs and daggers looked foreboding, their faces were fearful.

            “Let us go and you may live!” Patroclus cried. “You’ll lose either way! You’ll either die or kill all the whores that make this place worth protecting.”

            “Shut up!” one of them cried, and Patroclus realized that it was Brutus, the one who’d helped bring him here a year ago.

            He was still as terrifying as before, albeit a bit more grizzled, and the hate Patroclus felt in that moment was unlike any hate ever experienced by man, even when he’d been looking into the face of Adonis and Ronan.

            There was a single moment that seemed suspended in time, where everyone drew breath to brace themselves and muscles tensed up all over. And then all hell broke loose.

            The room dissolved into a hurricane of glittering weapons and churning fabric, and Patroclus plunged into the fray without an ounce of fear. The support of his peers fueled him like how prayer fueled a god, and he sliced and hacked and punched at anyone who wasn’t wearing colorful silks.

            Countless men were left to the mercy of his knife, and the last thing they saw before they fell was the image of the gaping, white-eyed head of Adonis and the burning red hourglass.

            Blood spewed and people cried out, bodies of guards and whores and clients alike collapsing with gushing wounds. Despite having no formal training, the residents of Elysium fought like animals, their desperation and fury making them a thousand times deadlier despite their glass and wood weapons.

            Patroclus roared as he plunged his knife through a man’s armor and through his chest, the man crumpling into a heap at his feet, and twirled around to slice open the throat of a guard who’d tried to sneak up on him. His arm was getting tired from holding up Adonis’ head, but the symbol of their triumph seemed to fuel the others’ vehemence, so he cared little if his muscles were starting to ache.

            Briseis was a demon, her palms cut up from the glass shards in her hands but her mouth twisted into a triumphant snarl as she mowed down the guards like a lioness on the hunt. Patroclus gasped when a man bowled her over and she dipped beneath the mass of writhing bodies, but when he finally shoved toward her, he found that she’d jammed glass beneath the man’s kneecap and had hacked one of his eyeballs out of his face with the other.

            “You’re good,” he said breathlessly, and she grinned through the mask of blood on her face that condensed on her lashes and matted her hair.

            “I’ve never felt more alive,” she admitted.

            It took only a few more minutes for them to drive the rest out, the guards fleeing when they seemed to realize that no, they didn’t want to risk their lives for a brothel whose owner had been beheaded by a furious whore. None of them, Patroclus knew, wanted to be remembered as a man who’d been killed by a horde of rogue prostitutes.

            The rebels looked around wearily, as if expecting an army of reinforcements to leap out at them, but everything had turned peaceful once more, if they didn’t count the soft whimpers of the wounded that drifted up from the floor.

            Those of the wounded who were rebels were hoisted up and laid out so they could be tended to, and those who weren’t were quickly silenced.

            Patroclus discarded Adonis’ head, chuckling as it rolled around on the floor like some sort of grisly kickball, and hoisted himself up onto one of the benches. It was a bench where men had used to sit and wait to be paired up with a person whose body they’d use like an object, but no longer.

            “Hey!” he shouted, and the soft murmuring that had rippled through the room quickly quieted. “We’ve won our freedom tonight. We are broken to Adonis’ heel no longer.”

            A chorus of cheers that took forever to die down, and the corners of Patroclus’ mouth tilted up at the joy their eyes and the smiles that made their eyes crinkle.

             Something like pride blossomed in him. Pride for himself. Pride for these beautiful people who’d just overcome their biggest hardship.

            “I shall give you a choice,” he declared. “You can leave now; take as much as you need from the food stores and set off to return to your families or start a new life. Or, you can ride with me.” Patroclus’ eyes raked over the eager faces. “Our lands are at war with Troy, and my beloved is there fighting. There will be riches and glory awaiting us, and along the way, I plan to liberate our brothers and sisters from situations not unlike how our own used to be.”

            “I’m in,” Briseis announced before he’d even finished his sentence, stepping forward. With a jolt, Patroclus realized she’d painted a red hourglass on her forehead to match his. “It sounds like the adventure stories my mother used to tell me when I was young.”

            “I’m in, too,” a boy declared. He looked no older than fourteen, his mousy hair curling around his temples and the hem of his silks stained crimson. “My family was the one who sold me in the first place.”

            A chorus of agreements, and Patroclus threw back his head and laughed, clapping his hands together. “Alright, everyone! Let’s get moving before the city interferes! Get the liquor! Load up the carriages!”

            The group scrambled to obey, the chaos of the battle melting into the diligence of a well-oiled machine, like soldiers falling into perfect step with one another.

            Liquor was seized from the shelves of the bar and the office was raided for money and weapons, both of which were found in excess. The pantry was ripped apart, rations given off to the few who were leaving, and the rest stuffed into burlap sacks to be toted away. People ran back to their rooms to gather their belongings, and Patroclus considered going back for Adonis’ body and his bottle of poison, but decided against it.

            Those were relics of the past that needed to be left behind him.

            He was a black widow no longer, for black widows lived and worked alone. No, he was the alpha of a pack of wolves now, a pack that was eager and frothing at the mouth, ready to spill blood at any cost.

            Idly, he wondered if he would’ve been against all of this carnage beforehand, when he’d been at his father’s palace.

            The night was cool and crisp, a gentle breeze weaving its way between the buildings, and the windows blazed like squares of fire against the darkness, shifting silhouettes flitting to and fro from within.

            The horses reared and shrieked as they were dragged from the nearby stables and hitched to the carriages, and Patroclus’ eyes rested on a gigantic black beast of a mare.

            “Don’t hitch that one,” he called, holding out his hand, and the man holding the reins placed them into his open palm. Patroclus looked up at the horse’s face, at her big black eyes and wavy main that rippled in the wind. “I know you.”

            This was one of the horses that had pulled Brutus’ carriage all those years ago. For a moment, he considered cutting its throat just to watch it bleed out on the stones, but something stopped him.

            The horse had just been doing its job, pulling and pulling because it knew it’d be punished by the whip if it didn’t. In a sense, the two of them were more alike than different.

            The hard lines of Patroclus’ expression softened.

            “I know we didn’t get off to a good start, but I’d at least like to be friends,” he told it, and it nuzzled at his palm. Its nose was soft like velvet against his hand. “Arachne, your name will be.”

            It was the name of the tapestry-weaver who’d been turned into a spider by the goddess Athena in the infamous myth.

            With a blood-soaked hand, he painted a red hourglass onto Arachne’s forehead. “Welcome to the army.”

            He turned to the others, his eyes glinting in the light of the moon. “Take half the liquor and douse the waiting room in it. Make sure no one is still inside, and bring me Adonis’ head.”

            “Yes, sir,” they said and complied, grins breaking out across their faces, for surely they knew what was to come next.

            Once that was said and done, Patroclus took a long stake of wood and impaled Adonis’ head, plunging the other end into the earth so that it looked like a rodent who’d been stuck on a thorn by a shrike.

            He stepped back and stared up at the building he’d thought he would never get to leave, the building that had imprisoned him within its walls like the coils of a python constricting his body and leeching out all of his hope and dignity. He looked to either side of him and saw his own anger reflected in the eyes of his newfound comrades.

            Without any hesitation, he ordered, “Light it up.”

            Briseis was the first to act, and she lunged for a wall sconce, the fire casting ghastly shadows across her face and illuminating the fury that contorted her features. With a mighty heave, she tossed the sconce at the door, which burst into flames at first contact.

            Hands tightened on the reigns of the horses as people held their breath and backed up, orange light thrown across the alley as the fire blazed like a dying star. It ate away at the door slowly, the wood crackling and popping, and Patroclus knew the moment it found the alcohol dousing the floor and walls, for at that moment the windows exploded and a whirling inferno leapt into the sky like the winds of a firebird making a bid for freedom.

            The horses reared and cried out, but the assembled group could only stand and stare with wonder, their mouths open and their eyes wide.

            It was one of the best moments of Patroclus’ life.

            He would’ve loved to stay and watch Elysium burn to ashes, but the building was belching smoke and making quite the ruckus, no doubt alerting the city officials who would come to intervene. They had to be out by then.

            Patroclus cast one last look at Adonis’ head, grinning at the sight of it silhouetted against the blaze, and leapt onto Arachne’s back without a saddle, his silks billowing around him and the red hourglass looking like it was branded onto his skin in the firelight.

             “Move out! We should be long gone before they arrive,” he announced. “To those who are leaving: safe travels, and try to stick together until the last possible moment. I bid you farewell.”

            After some tearful goodbyes and some more admiring of their makeshift four-story bonfire, they set out.

            It must’ve been about midnight, or perhaps the witching hour, for the moon was high in the sky and only the crows were there to witness their thundering through the streets.

             Arachne galloped like a force of nature, her hooves pounding against the cobbles as she led the three carriages packed full of food, weapons, cash, and shrieking rebels.

            People threw open their windows and peered out to behold the swift parade of gallantly celebrating men and women scantily clad and downing drinks like they’d die if they didn’t. Wine sloshed and shrill cries of delight rose up above the rooftops as they ripped through the city and—after an awkward encounter with an old lady whom they asked for directions—set off toward Troy.

            Patroclus raised his fist, twisting around on Arachne’s back and bellowing, “Justice!”

            “Justice!” they echoed, and by the time the night was over, they’d composed three ballads and eighteen poems dedicated to the word.

            Patroclus turned his gaze to the sky, and for the first time, he felt like the gods were smiling down upon him.

            Perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought.

 

\----

 

            Achilles first heard of them from the messengers.

            The men always gathered around the fire to listen to what the messengers had to say, for they were weary from months of fighting and eager to hear about events in the outside world.

            There was the customary banter, such as the birth of a future king, a royal marriage, or a new elected official, but none of those trivial things held a candle to the reign of terror of a figure whom the messengers only spoke of as the Black Widow.

            It was sometimes a he, sometimes a she. In some cases, it would be the most beautiful person in all of the land, and other times a mangled beast that had crawled to the mortal world from the depths of the Underworld itself. Sometimes it would be riding a white steed, other times black, and the messengers couldn’t seem to agree on if it wore full military regalia or the common silks of a whore.

            In all cases, the Black Widow was a force to be reckoned with, a merciless creature whose actions spawned horrific tales of severed heads and brothels burned to the ground. And in each and every place, an hourglass would be painted onto the wall in blood. A symbol of rebellion. An omen of death.

            “The Black Widow used to be a whore,” one messenger told them.

            “A seamstress who was raped by her cousin,” said another.

            “A prince disgraced and traded for cavalry and bowmen,” claimed a third.

            Though the main storyline was the same, the information was all different, too many people clamoring to put their two cents in and dilute the story with wild speculation and false witness testimony.

            “He has this curly brown hair—”

            “Long, blond hair—”

            “She’s a redhead from the north, I’m sure—”

            “Incredibly beautiful,” he deadpanned. “Like Aphrodite herself has come down from heavens.”

            “A hideous witch.”

            “A face like cracked marble and a smile like a grinning skull.”

            “A gorgeous siren who’s crawled from the sea.”

            “He calls for Justice!” one insisted, though his cheeks were rosy from drinking. “Like the final judgement.”

            “She wants freedom—”

            “He’s always shouting about revenge—”

            “Anarchy—"

            “And her eyes…” The messenger trailed off, shaking his head. His expression had turned grim in the firelight. “They burn with hate”

            “Hate.”

            “Hate in his eyes—”

            “There’s just this…this hate there that I can’t describe.”

            Pretty soon the Black Widow and its army of liberated whores was the only thing that the camp talked about. The name was buzzing in the air, whispered around dinner tables and mentioned offhandedly in casual conversation.

            “It’s definitely some politician trying to make a statement,” Diomedes deadpanned.

            “Oh, but surely it could be a goddess angered by the war,” Ajax insisted.

            “Perhaps it _is_ a whore like they’re saying. A whore gone rogue, out of revenge,” Odysseus mused, his eyes sparkling, and the assembled warriors laughed at him and mocked him for even thinking of believing the rumors.

            But Achilles wasn’t thinking about the Black Widow itself, not really. He was thinking of Patroclus.

            From what he’d heard, the Black Widow and their army was traveling in their direction, stopping along the way to burn more brothels, decapitate more pimps, and amass more followers. Maybe they would stop by Elysium and free Patroclus?

            The thought made his heart expand tenfold and then contract so quickly he chest ached. If Patroclus joined the Black Widow, then how would Achilles find him again? Even if he did survive the war, would they be unable to find each other, always traveling in search but only getting farther and farther away from one another?

            This grim theory plagued his thoughts day in and day out. He would think about it while he was cutting foes down on the battlefield and lie awake at night, musing over it.

            The Black Widow had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him; at least when Patroclus had been trapped in Elysium, Achilles had known where he could find him.

            He shook the thought from his head as if dislodging a pesky mosquito buzzing in his ear, cursing himself. Patroclus _had to_ be liberated, if not by Achilles then by this Black Widow; Achilles was a terrible lover if he thought his love’s imprisonment was better than his emancipation.

            Weeks dragged on, and Achilles wondered when the war would end. The Black Widow was crawling farther and farther north on horseback, and even though they were on the opposite side of the Aegean Sea, the troops still got nervous.

            What if they came to Troy? What if they joined the side of the city that was trying to defeat the country who’d allowed their enslavement?

            It was a long route, which included a trip through hostile Macedonia and a boat ride across the Dardanelles Strait, but if they hadn’t been doing all the raiding and murdering and had simply traveled nonstop, the whole trip would’ve only taken a week or so.

            _Besides, they’re not even coming to Troy,_ he thought.

            But the messengers proved him wrong.

            Instead of continuing to head north, the Black Widow circled around, and when all the reports were taken into account, their average location was about the middle of the Macedonian coastline. They were definitely heading to Troy.

            “They’re only a week’s worth of travel away!” one messenger cried.

            “Three days—”

            “A couple of hours—”

            “They’re upon us as we speak—"

            It happened two days later, in the dead of night.

            Achilles had fought especially hard that afternoon and was wearier than normal, but nevertheless he’d stayed up late to admire Patroclus’ portrait and speak softly to him about the events that the past few days had brought.

            He’d been just ready to fall into a fitful sleep when the horn sounded, a low groan of a noise that vibrated through the air like the low call of a wolf. The scouts had spotted something.

            Wondering if the Trojans had finally gotten fed-up with the bitter stalemate and were launching a surprise attack, he threw his armor on and grabbed his spear, sprinting out of his tent to join the countless men streaming from their tents in various stages of undress.

            The scouts didn’t even have to give him a report, for in the distance on the long stretch of beach, a black mass was coming toward them. As it neared, Achilles realized that it was an army, a throng of wagons, foot soldiers, and cavalry.

            “Trojans?” Agamemnon demanded. His hair was unkept and his eyes were frazzled from sleep.

            “No, they’re coming from the wrong direction,” Achilles murmured. “And they aren’t flying any banners or boasting any chariots.”

            “They don’t even have armor on!” one of the keener-eyed scouts cried.

            “Hold your fire,” Achilles ordered the bowmen, who were reaching for their quivers. “I don’t think it’s the Trojans.”

            “Or maybe it is!” Agamemnon cried. “And because of your mistake, we’ll get slaughtered like cattle!”

            “They’re a little too…loud to be a stealth mission,” Odysseus drawled, and when the whole group of murmuring warriors quieted, they all realized the distant chatter.

            Laughing, babbling, gossiping.

            They sounded like civilians, not soldiers, and when they neared, it was clear that none of them were intending to fight. Although it was dark, Achilles could make out no bows or spears or swords or shields.

            His eyes slid to a central figure leading the pack. Their face was cloaked in shadow, and they sat astride a gigantic black beast of a horse, its mane nearly brushing the ground and its head reaching higher than two men standing on top of one another.

            The Trojans had no such horses.

            It was unbridled and unsaddled, the figure using handfuls of its mane to keep itself steady, and Achilles caught a glimpse of a single bare foot peeking out beneath its billowing robes.

            It wasn’t long before everyone noticed the red hourglass that had been painted on the horse’s forehead in blood that had long since dried and crusted, flaking off in places.

            “The Black Widow!” someone hissed, and the warriors shifted restlessly, a ripple of nervous muttering weaving through the ranks, and Achilles swallowed hard.

            Another horse came up beside the first, a dappled grey whose rider was a young woman with skin like copper and a mane of curly hair. Unlike her companion, she was unrobed, revealing the stark hourglass mark that matched her horse’s.

            “Our weapons are in our carts, hidden away!” Her voice rang out into the empty night like a bell being struck. Her accent was Anatolian, which set the army even further on edge. “We don’t wish to fight! We’ve come to help!”

            The figure beside her said nothing, their face a dark mass beneath the hood, like some sort of wraith.

            “We should fire on them now. They’re murderers,” Agamemnon growled.

            “No! These are reinforcements, you fool,” Diomedes spat. “Albeit, I have no idea how we’re going to use about…” He paused, squinting. “…a hundred or so whores with no military training in battle, but they can have…other uses.”

            The murmuring had turned excited.

            The soldiers speculated of long nights spent with a warm, willing body; all of their war prizes had been taken by force, and all of them were itching for release that didn’t involve a lot of struggling and restraint.

            “Wait, Achilles, isn’t that your chestplate?” Odysseus prompted, and a collective gasp rose up when everyone caught sight of the snarling golden lion and its ruby eyes, worn proudly by the cloaked figure on the big black steed.

            “It can’t be,” Achilles whispered, and before anyone could stop him, he ran toward the approaching army, his spear falling into the sand.

            Ignoring the shouts of his comrades, he charged headfirst toward them like a bull toward a red banner, his blood singing and his mind whirling with questions he didn’t have the answers to.

            He skidded to a stop in front of the horse, who glared down upon him with eyes like two yawning abysses. The crimson blood of the hourglass looked black.

            “You must be the Black Widow,” he said to the figure. He could make out what he could only assume were hints of a face, but for all he knew the figure could be headless. “I’ve heard much about you.”

            The cloaked man—for surely it was a man, Achilles could tell by the broadness of his shoulders and the hair on the tops of his bare feet—slid off of his horse, patting its neck.

            “I’m Achilles, _Aristos Achaion_.” He extended his hand, but the Black Widow didn’t take it, seeming frozen to the spot like a statue, and Achilles snatched his hand back like he’d been burned. “Uh…you seem to have something of mine. How did you get that?”

            The Black Widow didn’t answer, and Achilles was starting to get frustrated. His hands balled into fists, and he wondered how much trouble it would cause if he clocked the Black Widow in the face that very moment.

            Then, the figure’s hands reached up and removed his hood.

            Achilles sucked in a sharp breath when he beheld the face of the Black Widow.

            His eyes were like burning embers, his face split by two jagged scars, and his jaw was stubbled.

            Achilles crumpled to his knees before him, prompting an uproar from the crowd of Greeks at his back, but he hardly cared, for this certainly wasn’t the man he’d left behind at Elysium.

            “I guess it turns out that _I_ have in fact returned to _you_.” Patroclus’ voice was like honeyed wine, rolling over his spine and making him shiver.

            Achilles took Patroclus’ hands in his and kissed his knuckles.

            “How the tides have changed, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cranked this out REALLY quick because I just love the plot so, so much, and I hope you love it just as much as I do!!! Please leave a comment/kudos if that's the case; they make my day!!! :)


	3. The Spider and the Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): War, Mentions of past rape

**III.**

THE SPIDER AND THE FLIES

-

 

Nobody dared to oppose Achilles when he motioned for the Greeks to clear a path for Patroclus’ army, the air rumbling with the sound of shifting bodies and clinking armor.

            “Achilles!” Agamemnon hissed as the solemn group of ex-whores marched by, their gazes pinned straight ahead as they led their towering horses into the heart of the camp.

            “You go on ahead,” Achilles assured Patroclus, who nodded and ushered his soldiers forward, his gigantic black beast of a mare shadowing him like some sort of wraith without even having to be led along by reigns.

            Achilles shuffled over to Agamemnon, who was red in the face and pacing like a caged animal. “Is there an issue?”

            “Of _course_ there’s an issue!” Spittle flew from his mouth, and Achilles’ nose crinkled as he wiped the droplets off of his face. “You just invited a whole army into our camp without so much as consulting me!”

            “We can trust them.”

            “How do you know that?! They’ve killed hundreds of people! Their horses are built like oxen and follow them around as if under a spell! There might be witchcraft involved here.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. If anything happens and they turn on us, you can have my head for it, but I assure you that they’ll uphold their claims of peace.”

            Agamemnon nodded, the corners of his mouth jumping as if unsure about whether to grin at the thought of Achilles’ head on a pike, and Achilles didn’t stay long enough for him to make any jibes, jogging to catch up with Patroclus.

            “What did he say?” Patroclus asked, his horse nosing at his cheek and sticking to him like a chick following its mother.

            “That you’re all murderous snakes and your horses are too big.”

            “How dare he! Our horses just fine the way they are.”

            “He has a slight point,” Achilles admitted, shying away when Patroclus’ mare turned to watch him with beetle-like eyes. “They’re…quite monstrous.”

            “You needn’t be afraid unless you’re facing off with us on the battlefield.” Patroclus patted his horse’s cheek. “They’re quite harmless.”

            “They’re enormous.”

            “Arachne is small compared to some of the others with more northern blood in them,” Patroclus agreed with a chuckle. “Gentle giants, that’s all, like Argus or Hephaestus’ cyclopes.”

            “You named your horse Arachne?”

            “It seemed fitting.” Patroclus glanced pointedly at the red hourglass painted on the mare’s forehead. “It also fits my whole…brand. Being the Black Widow and all.”

            “Are the legends true?”

            “Which ones? There are too many to count.”

            Achilles laughed, shaking his head, but on the inside his stomach was roiling; had he made the right decision by letting Patroclus enter the camp? His heart bellowed its approval, but his head was skeptical; when his gaze slid to the ethereal creature beside him, an unimaginable being cloaked in the skin of his beloved’s body, a seed of doubt took root.

            Patroclus glanced and smiled at him often, but there was something in the sparkle of his eyes and the twist of his lips that made Achilles tense all over.

            _Run,_ his body screamed. _Run, run, run._

“Take the horses and choose a place on the outskirts to set up camp,” Patroclus ordered no one in particular, turning to face the countless men, women, and children marching alongside him. “I’ll handle the formalities.”

            The silk-clad soldiers dipped their heads reverently with a collective mumble of, “Yes, sir.”

            “Briseis, stay with me.”

            “Briseis?” Achilles prompted as a mousy-haired girl with dark skin and a clever smile broke away from the receding group to stand on Patroclus’ other side. She was the one who’d been riding beside Patroclus beforehand. “Who are you?”

            “I’m his second in command,” she stated, and Achilles bristled as her gaze raked over him accusingly. “You must be Achilles, his supposed true love who left him behind to rot in a fucking brothel—”

            “Enough!” Patroclus snapped, the word like fingernails scraping down Achilles’ spine.

            Briseis gave Achilles a withering look, as if she suspected he was leading her and Patroclus into a trap. It set his teeth on edge.

            They walked for a while, weaving through the tents and passing gaping men who’d only just managed to don their armor and stumble out of their tents, when Patroclus finally broke the silence.

            “So…” he drawled softly, mindful of the Greek army trailing behind them like a massive, muttering shadow, “how are you?”

            _Terrified that you might turn on us and kill everyone here before moving on to burn Troy to the ground._

            “Better than I was now that you’re here.”

            Patroclus flushed red, and the shameless prince that Achilles had once known peeked through the veil of cold detachment his beloved had wrapped around himself. Patroclus’ smile made the jagged scars on his face twist, and Achilles’ expression turned grim.

            “Did…did Adonis do that to you?” he asked, feeling like a fish out of water that was floundering and gasping for breath.

            Patroclus’ smile faded, his eyes flitting to the ground and his hands picking at his silks.  “Yes, but no matter. He’s dead now.”

            Achilles didn’t pry for more, and the two lapsed into an uncomfortable silence that Briseis seemed to be drinking in and enjoying far too much for Achilles to consider polite.

            They reached the common area, a huge clearing in the center of camp for eating, drinking, and making merry. A fire crackled off to one side, and Achilles could see the way the sparks reflected in Patroclus’ dark eyes, making it look like there were flames hidden away behind his irises.

            At the center of the clearing was a raised dais normally used by either Agamemnon or Achilles himself for making announcements, and benches were scattered around it so soldiers could sit and listen.

            Achilles guided Patroclus and Briseis to one of these benches and gestured for them to sit, and before he could think better of it, he sat beside Patroclus. This even further solidified Patroclus as his equal or perhaps even his superior; that stunt he’d pulled by crumbling to his knees had set everyone on edge, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret that decision.

            He’d gladly worship at the feet of his beloved any chance he got.

            _But is he really your beloved?_ a serpent-tongued voice in his head demanded as he watched Patroclus watch the fire.

            The soldiers filed into the clearing, and while some took a seat, most of them remained standing, looking almost comical wearing a jumble of armor and nightclothes. They wouldn’t take their eyes off of Patroclus, their gossiping mouths hidden behind the shields of their hands as they shifted restlessly.

            “The Black Widow…”

            “Kind of thought he’d be a woman...”

            “…killed a thousand men…”

            “Monster…”

            “…mistake to bring him here.”

             Achilles’ jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists and his knuckles turning white around the shaft of his spear.

            “Are you alright?” Patroclus asked, only sparing Achilles a moment’s glance before turning his gaze back to the twirling and dancing flames. “You seem troubled.”

            “They’re talking about you.”

            “That’s nothing new.”

            “They’re saying you’re a threat, that I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

            “Understandable,” Patroclus admitted, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “I have raided brothels in over fifteen cities and freed over a hundred men and women from the bonds of slavery. Some people stood in the way of me doing that, and I didn’t hesitate to put them down and stick their severed heads upon wooden stakes. So perhaps I am a threat; they have the right to be nervous.”

            “But their nervousness is uncalled for, right?”

            “Why, of course! I don’t have nearly enough stakes for all of their heads.” When he saw Achilles go pale, he rolled his eyes. “I’m joking.”

            Achilles rubbed the sweat off of his forehead, opening his mouth to say something more when Agamemnon took to the dais and the whole camp went quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the distant clamor of Patroclus’ army getting settled in.

            “Warriors of Greece,” he announced, his voice booming. For a colossal prick, he really was a good speaker. “We’ve just welcomed a new army into our midst that has claimed to be coming to our aid.”

            He nodded to Patroclus, who rose to his feet and strode over to the dais, his silks billowing around him and his bare feet not making a sound against the dusty earth. It was as if they’d invited a specter into their camp instead of a being of flesh and blood.

            “Is it true that you’re the notorious Black Widow?”

            “Yes,” Patroclus answered.

            “What’s your real name?”

            “Patroclus.” A shocked murmur from the assembled soldiers. “I’m the dishonored Prince Patroclus of Opus, sold into slavery by distant cousins following my exile.”

            “What kind of slavery?”

            Patroclus’ lips twisted; he knew as well as Achilles that Agamemnon was just asking this question to make him announce his whoredom and disgrace. “The licentious kind.”

            “So you’re a whore?”

            “I _used to_ be a whore. I think you all know how well that turned out.”

            “Adonis,” Odysseus remarked, mostly to himself. “Adonis was the first one killed.”

            “Why are you here?”

            “To fulfill my oath,” Patroclus deadpanned, turning to look at the grim faces outlined in the firelight. “Like the rest of the princes here, I swore an oath to Helen many years ago, but I couldn’t follow through with it when I was being whored out in a brothel.”

            “But the oath doesn’t apply to you anymore. You’re dishonored.”

            Patroclus shrugged. “An oath is an oath. There were also a few other factors.” His gaze flitted to Achilles. “Living in a brothel is quite an…undesirable situation. I knew I couldn’t stay any longer.”

            “I’m glad you came.” Agamemnon’s tone clearly stated he was anything but glad. “But how do we know you’re trustworthy? You have a…serpentine reputation.”

            “I will swear my allegiance to you.” Patroclus knelt on one knee, bowing his head, and Achilles’ blood boiled at the sight. “I, dishonored Prince Patroclus of Opus, vow that I and my army shall fight for and beside you until the war with Troy has ended…under one condition.”

            The soldiers whispered among themselves and Agamemnon’s face turned bright red. He casted an accusing glance at Achilles, as if blaming him for this blatant display of disrespect.

            Patroclus rose to his feet, turning to face the Greeks with an expression that made Achilles feel like he was entangled in a web and looking right into the jaws of a black widow.

            “None of you shall ever, _ever_ ,” spittle flew from his mouth like venom, “intimately touch my warriors unless they explicitly consent.”

            Agamemnon tried to speak, but Patroclus’ voice rose above his, “If I hear that one of you was idiotic enough to harass, assault, or rape any of my soldiers, I will see to it that you’re beheaded.”

            Patroclus whirled back to Agamemnon, “That is all I ask.”

            “Why, you insolent—”

            “We’ve also brought plenty of goods gained from our travels as an offering of compensation for taking on so many new mouths to feed.”

            “I want nothing to do with stolen goods.”

            “Really now? I guess you’d have no interest in thirty bottles of wine, fifteen pounds’ worth of bronze, gold, and silver jewelry, twelve silk kimonos from the far eastern lands, twenty-five pearl necklaces, eight ceremonial swords from Egypt—”

            “I say we let him stay!” Diomedes cried, practically frothing at the mouth at the prospect of such treasures. Sure, the raids of Trojan towns had reaped enormous profits, but no Trojan could ever possess such luxuries as the ones Patroclus had described.

            There were a chorus of enthusiastic agreements, and Agamemnon’s jaw clenched.

            “To sweeten the pot, I shall announce that some of my soldiers still offer particular services that you all might be seeking…for a fee, of course.”

            A chorus of whooping and clapping, and Patroclus mock-bowed, his smile crooked like Adonis had cut a third scar into his face with a razor.

            Achilles realized, suddenly, that Patroclus was playing the army just as well as he’d played Achilles’ body during their time together, plucking their strings until they were all rallying to his aid; now, with the soldiers on Patroclus’ side, Agamemnon couldn’t ever dream of turning down the loyalty oath.

            After a long pause and a lot of teeth-grinding, Agamemnon managed to hiss, “Very well, I accept your oath and its…terms.”

            The crowd cheered, and Patroclus beamed, a genuine smile that made his face light up like a thousand suns all shining at once, and Achilles felt weak in the knees just looking at him.

            His anxiety melted away, replaced by anticipation; everyone was retiring back to their tents, which meant that he and Patroclus could spend the night reconnecting with each other without so many prying eyes around to see them.

            He held out his arm, beckoning him. “This way, love.”

            Several soldiers stopped in their tracks, doing a double-take when Patroclus went willingly.

            “The one from the painting…”

            “…couldn’t be…”

            “Fatter than I expected…”

            “Those scars…”

            “…on the inside is what counts, am I right?”

            Achilles tensed, ready to whirl around and threaten to skewer all of them, but Patroclus touched his shoulder, gently. “They’re not worth it.” He turned to Briseis. “Make sure everyone’s settling nicely and make sure the compensation is delivered to Agamemnon for distribution.”

            “Where will you be going, sir?” Briseis prompted, her eyes narrowing as they flitted to Achilles.

            “I’m going to sleep in Achilles’ tent tonight, I believe.” He turned to Achilles. “If that’s all right with you.”

            “Of course.”

            More glaring, and Briseis seemed about to say something more but decided against it, nodding in acknowledgement before melting back into the crowd. Achilles glowered at her back, though he quickly hid his distaste when he saw Patroclus’ crestfallen expression.

            “I was hoping you two would get along,” he murmured, his hands twisting in his silks.

            “Who said we weren’t getting along?”

            “Just because I used to be a whore doesn’t mean I’m brainless. I also have eyes.” Patroclus scuffed his feet on the ground, hanging his head. “But perhaps it’s because you two are too much alike. Bold. Fearless. Always speaking up for what you believe.”

            They arrived at Achilles’ tent, the largest of them all excluding Agamemnon’s, and Achilles held the flap open for Patroclus before slipping inside behind him.

            All of his weapons and armor and war prizes were shoved off into one corner, stacked so precariously that one accidental nudge would send it toppling, and in another corner was a wooden dresser he’d snatched up from the home of an unsuspecting farmer. Most of the tent was consumed by a king-sized pallet, lush with blankets and furs and pillows.

            “It smells like you in here,” Patroclus murmured, running his fingers over the dresser.

            Achilles felt like he was in a dream.

            Patroclus and Troy had seemed like two completely different realms, with rigid divides between them that could never cross over or entangle. And yet here Patroclus was, casually defying all the rules and regulations of Achilles’ world just by standing there.

            He looked like a spirit in his silks, like some sort of apparition that had taken on the form of Patroclus and was hovering around his tent, exploring with detached interest.

            “I’m more excited for it to smell like you,” Achilles admitted, and Patroclus smiled softly and looked up from where he was fiddling with the plumes of one of Achilles’ helmets.

            Patroclus shed his borrowed armor, and Achilles licked his lips, his skin heating up as he caught glimpses of smooth skin underneath the silks, the fabric serving as more of a tease than a shield from unwanted gazes.

            “Do you want to—?”

            “No,” Patroclus said quickly, and Achilles was taken aback. “No, not tonight.”

            “Have I done something wrong?”

            “No, it’s just…I’m tired, and I want to catch up with you in the morning first. We haven’t seen each other in so long, and we didn’t even know each other enough to begin with…We’re near-strangers and I…I want to do things right. I want to do things how they’re supposed to be done, not like whatever rushed, frantic mess we called a courting stage.”

            The words stung, particularly that part about being strangers, but Achilles plastered on a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

            He shucked off his sandals and crawled into bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the weariness of his body. His limbs felt heavy and his eyes were drooping like they were made of lead, but his heart felt-feather light as Patroclus crawled in beside him.

            They faced each other, their fingers twining, but otherwise they didn’t touch.

            Achilles longed to reach out, to gather Patroclus up in his arms and squeeze the living daylights out of him, but if Patroclus wanted to take it slow and do things the right way, then he was alright with that.

            Despite the distance, he still fell asleep with a smile on his face, lulled by the calm, even breathing and shifting of his beloved beside him.

            Achilles woke to a clamoring uproar, his eyes flying open and his heart launching straight up into his throat.

            He rolled over, reaching out instinctively for Patroclus, but the bed was empty and cold.

            _They’re killing him,_ he thought as he frantically threw on his armor and lunged for his spears. _They’re burning him and his army at the stake. They didn’t accept his pledge of loyalty._

Stumbling out of his tent, he sprinted toward the center of camp, where the rumble of the voices of half the army rose up into the air among a blazing bonfire that stood out against the dark purples of very early dawn.

            _This can’t be happening! We’ve only just reunited!_

Achilles turned the corner and found a mass of soldiers clustered in the main living space that they’d gathered in last night.

            _No! No, no, no—_

Achilles shoved through the throngs of people, only just refraining himself from killing them all in a blind rage.

            “Patroclus!” he cried, but the very moment he raised his voice, a bellowing cheer burst from the crowd, drowning out his words. “Patroclus!”

            He managed to push to the front, expecting to see his lover’s head impaled on a spike and his body flung into the flames, but what greeted him instead froze his feet to the ground, his eyes going wide.

            Ajax was fervently rolling a pair of dice, his cheeks flushed and rosy and his sides heaving with laughter. The dice flew from his hands, both landing on three.

            “Doubles!” he bellowed, and the mob leapt into uproarious cheering.

            Patroclus, very much alive and very much not beheaded, feigned indignance as he slowly slid off his silks to reveal his chiton underneath, tossing them to the ground to join the two socks, chestplate, greaves, and helmet that were scattered around the announcement dais.

            His skin looked like burnished bronze in the firelight, and his ears sparkled with golden piercings. He was stunning.

            Even with the scars marring his face and the way his body hair was starting to grow in now that he didn’t have to shave, his physique was unmistakably feminine and enticing, made even more so by the way he danced like a snake charmed by an eastern flute.

            “Two doubles in two rolls? I think you’re cheating,” Patroclus remarked offhandedly as he sank into a split and twirled his way back up.

            The men around him guffawed, wine sloshing over their fronts.

            Ajax rolled again, receiving a five and a two for his trouble, and the crowd roared.

            “Third strike! You’re out!” Patroclus hollered, and Ajax stumbled away into the group, who clapped him on the back and congratulated him for ridding Patroclus of his left sock and his silks, which was, apparently, the current record for most clothing removed by one person.

            “What’s going on?” Achilles rumbled to the soldier next to him.

            “Whaddaya think’s going on?” he prompted, his words slurring, and he leaned forward dangerously like a building about to collapse. “Doubles and he takes off a piece of clothing. If you roll _not_ doubles three times, you lose and another guy gets the dice.”

            “What happens when he’s naked?”

            “The one who gets him naked gets to take him back to their tent.”

            Achilles went cold all over, and something that could only be described as jealousy crashed into him like a tidal wave. What was Patroclus doing? What was he _thinking?_

Though he tried not to think about it, beneath his jealousy and anger was genuine hurt, and he forced back the mist building up behind his eyes and shoved fury into the place of his sorrow, for surely he wasn’t going to break down in front of his own soldiers.

            He sucked in a breath through his teeth as more people staggered over to the dice.

            The next two men both failed to roll doubles within their turns, and they rejoined their comrades in embarrassing disgrace.

            There was a clamor over would go next, but before any of the men could get a hold of the dice, Briseis darted out from the crowd and snatched them up like a hawk snatching up mice.

            Patroclus threw back his head and laughed, lowering his eyes and chewing on his lip as he danced to show off how the flickering firelight played across his skin. His eyes looked like burning embers.

            “Let me show you how it’s done,” she announced in accented Greek, tossing the dice to the ground without even sparing them a glance.

            She landed double fives, and the whole crowd erupted into cheers as Patroclus rolled his eyes and shucked off his chiton.

            Now it was just him down to his undergarments—Achilles paled when he realized that the next person to roll doubles would be taking Patroclus back to their tent to ravish him—and the crowd fell into a still, tense silence as Briseis shivered the dice in her palms.       

            She exhaled, her eyes fluttering closed as she rolled, the dice tumbling into the dirt and bouncing across stones before they landed, and everyone leaned in to behold the two and the four.

            A chorus of clapping and shocked gasps, excited murmurs rippling through the assembled group.

            She rolled again. Six and a five.

            Clamoring voices. Those who’d been resigned to defeat were perking up hopefully, and it didn’t take long for Achilles to realize he was trembling.

            Patroclus leaned in with a smirk, watching with a crooked smile. Achilles would’ve never thought that such an expression could be worn on his beloved’s face, especially an expression that was so cold and calculating.

            _This isn’t the warm-hearted prince whom you left behind in Elysium,_ he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, his palms clammy and his fingers almost too slippery to grip his spear right. _This is the Black Widow. The murderer. The temptress._

            Patroclus had stopped dancing and was now standing stock still with his hands planted on his hips. He didn’t seem all that concerned that at any moment he could be whisked away to have sex with either Briseis or a stranger like he was some sort of object to be gambled away.

            _I’d rather Briseis lay with him than any of these other men,_ Achilles thought bitterly, but he knew that the words were empty; he didn’t want Briseis laying with Patroclus. He didn’t want _anyone_ laying with Patroclus, except himself.

            Briseis bounced on her toes like a soldier ready to lunge into battle, sweat beading on her forehead as she jingled the dice in her cupped hands. Her jaw clenching with determination, Achilles could make out a few hushed prayers leaving her lips in both Greek and Anatolian before she wound up and rolled again, exhaling raggedly.

            The dice bounced once. Twice.

            Everyone leaned in to behold the black spots on the ivory.

            Four and three.

            The group exploded into complete and utter uproar, jostling one another as the wine flowed and men howled in triumph. Briseis grimaced, offering Patroclus an apologetic nod before she stormed off, melting into the crowd before Achilles could so much as blink.

            There was something in Patroclus’ eyes that Achilles couldn’t identify as he watched Briseis go, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

            Before anyone could lunge for the dice, Achilles had seized them, his eyes locking with Patroclus’ as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with the weight of a hundred gazes.

            “Our glorious leader is looking to score something tonight!” Odysseus guffawed and wolf whistled, ignoring Achilles’ glare and folding his arms over his chest to watch on with detached amusement.

            “He only just got here! How come he gets to go before us?!” a man somewhere to his right demanded, and he was quickly shushed. Despite this, his voice still rose up above the cacophony, “But he slept with him last night!”

            Without breaking eye contact with Patroclus and even before the excitement of Briseis’ loss could properly die down, he tossed the dice.

            Two sixes.

            The throng of people groaned but grudgingly clapped, their feet kicking up dust as they all waited for Patroclus to take off the rest of his clothes so they could catch a glimpse of his glorious body before retiring back to their tents. 

            Patroclus clapped along with them with a huge grin on his face, basking in the hooting and hollering from faceless, drunken men, and made a move to slide his underwear down.

            “Don’t,” Achilles growled, and Patroclus froze, his brow furrowing as the whole crowd booed, shuffling awkwardly as Achilles’ anger boiled up to the surface. In as civil of a tone as he could muster, he hissed, “Patroclus. A word in my tent, please?”

            “Alright, let me just—”

            “A. word.”

            Patroclus’ jaw clenched, bonfires combusting behind his eyes, and for a moment, dread spurred his heart into a frantic rhythm despite how he was wielding a spear and Patroclus was unarmed and nearly naked.

            But Patroclus’ eyes were the eyes of a man who’d killed many times and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, and that chilled Achilles to the marrow.

            Plastering an apologetic smile onto his face, Patroclus waved the grumbling men off and leapt off of the dais, storming past Achilles and back to the tent, leaving him scrambling to catch up.

            The moment Achilles stepped inside, Patroclus was upon him, his finger jabbing at his chest accusingly and his whole body seeming to rise up like a cobra emerging from the grass. “What do you think you’re doing?”

            “I’d like to ask you the same thing!” Achilles snapped, tossing his spear to the floor. “It’s only our first night back together and you’re already trying to seduce other men?!”

            “Briseis was supposed to win,” Patroclus spat. “She was supposed to act interested, switch the dice out for a rigged pair, and then when she emerged victorious she’d announce that she wasn’t interested in laying with me and only wanted to win.”

            _Briseis looked more than interested, Pat,_ Achilles thought. _That wasn’t acting._

            “And you were just going to go through with it and not call it off when she lost?” he demanded.

            “This is strategic, Achilles. This was to assure your men that I—we, my army and I—are invaluable sources of entertainment and pleasure; they want their kicks, and they want them immediately. The problem is that my soldiers are weary from travel and are already getting swamped by propositions, even the ones who no longer want to sell their bodies and have repeatedly rebuffed their affections; I wanted to give them a look at the merchandise so they don’t grow bitter.”

            “Well I’m sorry I didn’t know that, since you failed to mention it to me. You’re lucky I stepped in when I did.”

            “Oh, am I?”

            “Yes, because otherwise you’d be getting fucked right now by some stranger.”     

            “And you’re no less of a stranger?”

            “Excuse me?”

            Patroclus threw his arms up in the air before folding them tightly over his chest as if to protect himself. “I’m no longer the meek prince who needs to be rescued, Achilles. Do you understand that?”

            _No._

“Of course I do!” he snapped. “And I’m worried about you. You’re…different.”

            “I thought we’d established that,” Patroclus growled, stalking around him like a lion.

            It reminded Achilles of when he’d first met Patroclus in the brothel and he’d looked like he was going to devour him, only this time it wasn’t going to be in a sexy way. Achilles could almost see the tawny pelt of the lion, could almost see blood slicking the fur beneath his mouth and the way his pupils looked like flies caught in amber.

            “Do you know why I didn’t shove you onto the bed and fuck the brains out of you last night?” Patroclus asked, almost offhandedly, and Achilles could feel the blush as low as his chest. When he didn’t respond, Patroclus continued, “It’s because my body is poisonous.”

            “What?” Achilles spluttered.

            “My body. It kills people when they touch it.” He ran his fingers over a Persian vase as an afterthought, his lips twisting. “My sweat and saliva are like venom. I’ve sweated most of it out on the way here, but I used to be so toxic that my clients coughed up blood after they laid with me.”

            “How…how did you do it?”

            “I used the bottle of northern spirits you gave me, the one we never opened. I mixed it with some of my makeup and it turned to poison.”

            “And you drank it?”

            “Built up an immunity until I started becoming poisonous myself.”

            Achilles took a seat on the pallet because he knew that his knees would’ve buckled if he’d remained standing for any longer. Patroclus lowered himself onto the sheets beside him, their shoulders touching.

            “I don’t appreciate you trying to control my life,” Patroclus said finally, after a long period of quiet. “I didn’t escape a brothel where my whole world was micromanaged just to stumble into a relationship where it’s no different.”

            “My apologies, but most of my anger stemmed from panic. I’d assumed our relationship would be…exclusive. Unless you don’t want that?”

            “No, no, no. Of _course_ I want that. Today was an accident; I didn’t mean to almost whore myself out to some stranger. Briseis was supposed to win.” He wrung his hands in his lap, and suddenly they both seemed acutely aware of how Patroclus was clothed by nothing but air and his undergarments. “It’s just… you have to accept the fact that I’m going to take risks once in a while. You don’t have to shelter or protect me.”

            “Alright, but it’ll be hard.” Achilles leaned in, murmuring, “I want nothing more than to roll you up in blankets and keep you in my tent so I can pamper you and protect you from every bad thing in the world.”

            His breath ghosted across Patroclus’ face, and he could see the way his beloved shivered, goosebumps rising up on golden-brown skin. “May I kiss you?”

            “You might get sick. My saliva is the most poisonous of all.”

            “Sickness will be nothing compared to the agony I’d feel if I didn’t kiss you right now.”

            “Then kiss away.”

            Achilles leaned in, pressing their lips together for the first time in months. Their souls seemed to throw their arms toward one another in joy, like two lovers running to meet in a field of grass and wildflowers, and they exhaled in unison, a ragged noise that allowed all of their tension and resentment to leech out of their bodies like water through cracked clay jars.

            Their hands reached out, needy, so they could pull each other close, and Patroclus wound up in Achilles’ lap, his knees braced on either side of his hips.

            “We should stop,” Patroclus whispered breathlessly, pulling away and touching their foreheads together, but Achilles still dipped his head back in for another peck. “We have to stop.” A hard press of their mouths that he gasped against. “I’ll poison you if we don’t.”

            “I can’t be killed until Hector dies,” Achilles pointed out, showering his beloved’s face with kisses even as he halfheartedly tried to turn away from them, licking into his mouth until his lips were red and swollen.

            “Well, I’m not taking the chance. He could’ve fallen from disease earlier in the evening and we wouldn’t’ve known until you collapsed dead.”

            “Alright,” Achilles agreed, pulling away despite how his mouth tingled with loss. “May I at least hold you?”

            “You can hold me as much as you’d like, but don’t kiss.”

            Achilles dragged Patroclus down onto the bed, his strong arms wrapping around Patroclus’ body as he pulled him as close as he could get without being inside him.

            “I have missed you so much.” Achilles’ voice cracked, his eyes fluttering as his fingertips felt the familiar, beautiful give of Patroclus’ skin beneath them. His body was hard in some places, lightly muscled, and that only made him feel all the more wonderful to hold. “I…I have longed for you every night and fallen asleep hushing words to your painting.”

            “You still have that wretched thing?” Patroclus demanded.

            “Don’t you dare call it wretched. It’s the most beautiful thing I own.”

            “You have bad taste.”

            “Not in men, apparently.” Achilles nuzzled into his neck and brushed his fingers over sensitive areas, making Patroclus wriggle and laugh.

            Achilles had never been more content than he was in that moment.

 

\----

 

            Patroclus jolted awake when Achilles threw himself from bed, only barely able to scramble out of the tent and distance himself a few feet away from the entrance before he vomited, his sides heaving so hard that it brought him to his knees.

            It was midmorning, the birds chirping and the camp just beginning to stir in preparation for a confrontation with Troy that afternoon, and the sky was a swath of pale blue stretched high overhead, flecked with wispy clouds.

            “Achilles!” Patroclus cried, throwing the blankets off of himself and running to his side, fumbling to pull Achilles’ hair back so it wasn’t in his face. “Oh no, I knew we shouldn’t’ve kissed. I’m so sorry, I should’ve resisted and put my foot down and now you’re—”

            “Shut—” Achilles was interrupted by a particularly violent retch, his eyes screwing shut. “Up.” He took in a wavering breath, as if expecting more, but nothing came. “Don’t apologize. It’s not you’re fault. You warned me, and I ignored you.”

            Patroclus lowered his gaze, sighing and rubbing Achilles’ back before helping him bury the disgusting mess so it wouldn’t smell. “Never did I think that one day I’d regret my poison.”

            “You shouldn’t,” Achilles murmured as Patroclus helped him to trembling feet and guided him back to the tent. “It helped you escape so you could come here. I very much like your poison. I’m indebted to it, really.”

            Patroclus chuckled, shaking his head. “You get changed and armored up. Rinse out your mouth, too. I’m going to head over to my army’s camp to get my clothes and see how my soldiers have settled.”

            “You don’t need clothes. Just walk around naked.”

            “I don’t think the rest of the Greeks here would appreciate that.”

            “They’d thank you a thousand times over.”

            Patroclus flicked Achilles on the back of the head and kissed him on the cheek in farewell before slipping out of the tent. Careful to avoid the newly-churned patch of earth, he slipped through the neat rows of tents and in the general direction of where he thought his comrades had set up camp.

            Soldiers just emerging from their tents, bleary-eyed and stubbled, still apparently had the sense of mind to catcall and whistle at him when he passed, and he indulged some of them with winks and waves. Many members of his army would’ve hated such attentions, but Patroclus didn’t mind; it was just a sign that he had control over these soldiers, at least when it came to his beauty. A pretty face was twice more likely to twist minds than an ugly one.

            When plain white tents faded into colorfully patterned canopies with jingling bells and fluttering flags, he knew he’d found them.

            “ _Hallo_ , sir!” a round-faced boy from the Northern Alpine groups greeted, his harsh Germanic accent bleeding into his words. He’d been kidnapped while on a raid with his father and sold as an “exotic” to the greedy clutches of a man whom Patroclus had made sure was long dead. “How was your tumble with _Aristos Achaion_?”

            Patroclus went bright red. “I didn’t _tumble_ with him!”

            The boy looked skeptical, hefting the laundry basket he was bringing to the river. “I’m sure you didn’t, sir.”

            “Where’s Briseis?”

            “She’s doing inventory now that all of that stuff was given to the Greek leader with the big nose. You’ll probably find her by the wagons.”

            “Thank you.”

            They parted ways, and Patroclus smiled to himself as he watched the boy go. It was moments like those that really made Patroclus proud of all the things he’d done, despite the obvious sins that came tacked alongside them.

            Unlike the hungover, weary men of Achilles’ militia, Patroclus’ people were lively and bright-eyed, still high on adrenaline from their journey. They talked amicably as they prepared food and unpacked their belongings, filling the air with singing and whistling and chatter.

            Patroclus passed a hefty woman belting an Anatolian ballad as she built a pen for her chickens, and a man with braids in his hair and dark tattoos hummed softly to himself as he scrubbed at dirty dishes.

            Two girls sewed up tears in their silks from spear points and arrows, gossiping about the boys chopping wood nearby, and two lovers shared adoring glances as they folded laundry side-by-side.

            Dogs barked, goats bleated, and horses whickered, making this place seem like a lush garden compared to the withered wasteland of Achilles’ camp.  

            “That’s coming out incredible!” he called to Iltani, an older woman from the southeast who’d been weaving for longer than Patroclus had been alive.

            She’d been working on a small tapestry, hardly bigger than a washcloth, for the whole journey, and Patroclus ogled at the sight of his own face beginning to take shape in thread, his woven eyes blazing with fury as he brandished the head of Adonis.

            Iltani looked up as he approached, her jet-black hair shot through with greys and braided in a long plait down her back, her face creased with wrinkles. She always gave off the vibe of a goddess in disguise, like how Athena had cloaked herself as an old woman to warn Arachne that her boasting would cost her.

            “Hello, _küçük kurt._ ” Little wolf in Turkish, the language of her native people. Iltani thought it was a fitting pet name, for Patroclus didn’t look menacing at a first glance but could still pack a hard bite. “How was your night with that blond hunk?” She wriggled her eyebrows. “Is he as talented in bed as I hear he is with a spear?”

            “Why does everyone think I slept with Achilles?”

            “Because that’s what you do, sweetheart. You find the hottest, strongest one and then you go in for the kill.”

            “I didn’t ‘go in for the kill.’” Patroclus folded his arms over his chest, quick to change to subject as he turned to her latest weaving. “That’s amazing.”

            Iltani frowned, her nose crinkling.

            “It’s okay, I suppose, but I can’t seem to get your nose right. Turn to the side for me, would you?”

            He obeyed, and she sketched out a quick profile before shooing him away so he couldn’t distract her. Patroclus wandered around for a little longer, stopping by the hastily cobbled horse pen to say hello to Arachne and listening to one of the children babble about her toy, before he finally made his way to the carts.

            “Look who the cat dragged in!” Briseis snapped, and Patroclus whirled to find her sitting next to one of the wagons, a scroll in hand as she counted food and livestock. “Is Achilles a good shag or what?”

            The people within earshot burst into laughter, trying to smother it with their hands or behind their lips, but all of them failed miserably, and Patroclus’ face turned dark shade of vermillion.

            “For the last time, I didn’t shag him!”     

            “Then why did I see him straight-up vomit on the ground this morning?”

            “Stop shouting!” Patroclus hissed as he ran to stand beside her. Lowering his voice, he murmured, “We were just kissing.”

            “Man, kind of wish you’d shagged. If he was throwing up just from kissing you, then he’d be dead right now if you’d banged. Could you do us all a favor and invite him to bed tonight so I don’t have to deal with his holier-than-thou attitude anymore?”

            “Enough,” Patroclus growled, and Briseis scoffed but obeyed. “How’s inventory?”

            “I think we lost one of our cows on the boat trip, but otherwise everything’s exactly where it should be.”

            “Where are my clothes?”

            “In your tent; some people volunteered to set it up for you.” She pointed over to where the red and gold flags of Patroclus’ tent peeked out above the other tents like a rising sun. “I told them not to look through your trunk or bags, but that guy from Thessaly might’ve snatched some of your panties.”

            “Let him have them,” Patroclus laughed, turning to go, but stopped. “Also, Briseis, I really appreciate how much you’ve helped me all this time.”

            “It’s no trouble,” she replied, and though the words were made to sound mocking, she was beaming all the same. “How else could your sorry ass keep this whole thing together if it weren’t for me?”

            Patroclus rolled his eyes but set off toward his tent.

            He threw his clothes on as quickly as possible, switching out his alluring silks for practical ones that boosted his appearance from sexy street whore to esteemed concubine. He scrubbed off his patchy red hourglass in the water basin, picked at his teeth, and painted on a new hourglass with rouge.

            It was a downgrade from Adonis’ blood, but it was a lot easier to get off afterward.

            By the time he was ready, the Greek army was already preparing to leave, decked out in extravagant armor and plumed helmets. Badly kept horses whose coats were muddied and whose mouths frothed reared up in front of the chariots, eager for the thrill of battle.

            The people parted for Arachne like how waves part for the bow of a ship, frightened by her size and the red hourglass that burned on both her and her rider’s foreheads.

            “You don’t even have to use a bridle,” Odysseus remarked.

            “Because I treat her with respect,” Patroclus replied, using his heels to steer Arachne around without even having to touch her mane, and she yielded to his gentle touch like the threads of an instrument. “Horses will run from their masters, but they won’t run from their friends.” He gestured to the poor stallions fighting against their bits and shrieking against the too-tight straps of their harnesses. “Be kinder to them and they will show you respect. Respect is a stronger component of loyalty than fear.”

            Patroclus left Odysseus to ponder that, guiding Arachne over to where Achilles was adjusting the straps of his armor beside his chariot.

            “What are you doing here?” Achilles demanded as Automedon handed him his spear.

            Patroclus frowned, brandishing his helmet. “I thought it was obvious. The rest of my army should be on their way. They’re just getting their armor together.”

            “No, that won’t be happening. You can’t fight.”

            “Says who?”

            Achilles threw his arms up in the air. “But you’ve only just got here. Perhaps you should sit this one out.”

            “I’ve come to serve in this army, and I intend to carry through with it.”

            “That’s not the service we thought you’d provide.”

            Patroclus’ eyes narrowed, and from his satchel he produced a repurposed bottle of northern spirits. “I have weapons that may be of use to you.”

            “That’s not a weapon. That’s liquor.”

            “It’s wonderful, how many things liquor can do. Can make a man happy and drunk or blow them to bits depending on how you use it.”

            “Blow them to bits, you say?” Ajax interjected, shouldering Achilles aside. “How so?”

            “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

            An excited murmur rippled through the assembled soldiers just as the members of Patroclus’ army who were willing to fight rode into the clearing, looking like gods compared to the haggard Greeks.

            Briseis rode in the lead, her armor glittering like a thousand jewels in the sunlight, and behind her were prisoners of war who’d been captured during wartime and were raring to fight on the battlefield once more.

            While the Greeks’ horses were made for maneuverability and swiftness, the horses of the Black Widow’s troops were hulking giants with rumbling voices and hooves the size of dinner plates, freed from the plow so their strength could be weaponized. 

            Even as they stood placidly, nosing at the dusty ground that had long since been stamped into submission by thousands of tired feet, Patroclus could see how their sheer size struck fear into the hearts of the Greeks, who edged away from them warily.

            “Just one battle,” Patroclus pleaded. “If it gets too bloody, we’ll retreat. How does that sound?”

            Achilles looked like he would rather walk on a bed of arrowheads, but after a tense moment of furrowed brows and the best puppy eyes Patroclus could muster, he bowed his head. “Fine. But you can’t go. Only your army.”

            Patroclus’ opened his mouth for a furious response, but thought better of it. His soldiers had been so excited to see battle again, especially the ones who’d been captured during war and sold to brothels, and if he decided that if he couldn’t fight then no one could, that’d be severely selfish on his part.

            He handed his satchel and the bottle of explosive spirits to Briseis.

            “Very well, but I’m leaving Briseis, my second-in-command, in charge of my army. You must make sure that you respect her and her decisions even though she’s a woman.”

            “But—”

            Patroclus’ voice rose above Agamemnon’s. “She is cleverer than all of your army combined. I wouldn’t get her angry; she’s just as dangerous as I am, if not more dangerous. I’m merciful compared to her.”

            Briseis smirked, testing the weight of the bottle in her hands as if contemplating whether she should hurl it at Agamemnon just to see him go up in flames. Her eyes looked like light shining through whiskey.

            “We’ll see that her input is appreciated,” Achilles agreed before Agamemnon could protest, and Patroclus smiled a genuine smile, one that made his whole face light up as his eyes crinkled and his lips twisted.

            Achilles looked like he was staring into the face of the sun, his eyes wide and his jaw slack as he basked in Patroclus’ approval.

            Agamemnon bared his teeth at the sight of the two of them and whirled around to bark orders at the troops, his fury bleeding into his words as the mass of soldiers lurched forward on a march to their slaughter in the yonder fields.

            “We’d best follow, sir,” Automedon stated as Achilles’ horses reared up eagerly, sensing battle on the horizon.

            “Loosen their girths,” Patroclus suggested.

            “Pardon?” Automedon tilted his head to the side. “What for?”

            “For the horses. The girth straps are too tight. If you loosen them, it’ll be easier for the horses to breathe. They can run faster and for longer.”

            “Making the girths tight keeps them fierce.”

            “Ah, but what is fierceness compared to swiftness? My army’s horses shall be fierce enough to compensate.”

            Automedon nodded thoughtfully and loosened the girths, and the horses seemed to visibly relax. While he was doing this, Patroclus slid off of Arachne’s back and patted her shoulder before running to Achilles and throwing his arms around his neck, laughing when his beloved staggered in surprise.

            “Be safe, my golden warrior,” Patroclus murmured, tilting up Achilles’ helmet slightly so he could kiss him. “Don’t die.”

            “I won’t.”

            “I already told Briseis and the others not to engage with Hector. They’ll keep you safe.”

            “What if they don’t?”

            “Then I’ll charge to battle myself.”

            “Naked, I hope?”

            “I wouldn’t have it any other way, love.”

            Bidding Achilles farewell was grueling; it took all of Patroclus’ strength not to leap atop Arachne and ride after the retreating army to fight by his beloved’s side.

            He was tired of goodbyes.

            “They’ll be back,” Iltani assured, leaning heavily on her gnarled cane.

            She and the others, who’d either been unfit to fight or simply hadn’t wanted to, had filtered into the clearing upon the departure of the two armies. The space seemed much larger now that there weren’t as many people there to fill it.

            The camp had lapsed into quiet, minus the constant chatter of the little ones tumbling around in the mud left behind by the ground trampled so often by feet and hooves.

            “Well,” Patroclus sighed, turning to the others. A good chunk of his group had remained behind. “We’d better make ourselves useful. I want everyone to return to a haven and not a slum.”

            They marked up a list of chores, divvyed groups that would perform those chores, and set to work.

            The pots, plates, and pans, left to crust and fester with past meals—for none of the men had ever cleaned out a cooking pot in their lives—were scrubbed till they sparkled.  

            The remaining horses, cows, goats, hogs, dogs, and sheep were all fed and groomed so they no longer looked like washrags with legs. Their pens were redone with new roofs and fences to replace the mangled, crumbling ones, and a weeks’ worth of manure was mucked out of the stalls.

            Patroclus not only directed the activities, but also participated himself when he felt a certain group was struggling with their task. He was glad there was something to occupy himself with; had he had all this time just to ponder, he probably would’ve driven himself mad and worn a canyon into the ground with all of his pacing.

            The laundry was done, more wood was brought in for the fire, and broken and tarnished gear was mended and shined by the blacksmith that Patroclus had among his masses.

            Children were instructed to fill buckets up with sand, which was then carted over to the common clearing to be spread out over the soggy ground and padded to prevent any future muck.

            They even had time to begin an irrigation system that would allow for people to be able to bathe in a secluded copse of trees without having to walk all the way to the ocean.

            By that point, the sun was high in the sky, and the group broke for lunch on the beach, which was enjoyed with relish. The waves lapped at the shore and the sand sparkled like someone had ripped a thread of pearls from a maiden’s throat and laid it gingerly across the shoreline.

            Gulls circled, eying the food and wine, and the sails of the Greek ships snapped and fluttered merrily in the cool breeze.

            The children shoved and tripped over themselves in the surf, cleaning off the accumulated mud from earlier, and the adults laughed and chatted as they snacked on cheese, olives, figs, and fine wine.  

            Patroclus couldn’t rest like the others, though.

            He could hear the sounds of battle far in the distance, rising above the gentle sound of the waves and the gulls, could hear the clash of spears, the shriek of horses, the explosions from his army’s repurposed liquor bottles, and the screams of dying men. One of those men could be Achilles for all he knew, or perhaps one of his soldiers.

            “Relax, _küçük kurt_.” Iltani prodded him with her cane, inspecting an olive critically. “It’ll be alright.”

            “I wish I was out there with them. At least then, I’d know what was going on. I hate not knowing what’s happening to them.”

            “Not knowing is a part of life.” She popped the olive into her mouth, turning her gaze to the sea. “We all just have to deal with it.”

            Patroclus wrung his hands, chewing on his lip. He threw the rest of his lunch to the gulls, even though he’d only had a few bites.

            The rest of the day was spent more on beautification than anything else.

            Colorful lines of flags were strung up between the tents and staked into the ground, and some of the artists seized their priceless paints to decorate the side of the armory with a depiction of Hercules slaying the Nemean Lion.

            Seashells that the children had found were pasted to the fences and troughs full to bursting with wildflowers created a dizzying perfume that was much unlike the ungodly stench of body odor and manure that had permeated the camp beforehand.

            Iltani unearthed a dozen or so extra tent sheets from one of the storages carriages, and a few lucky Greek soldiers had their bland, white tents replaced with outrageously colorful ones.

            By the time the armies returned, blood-soaked and battle weary, many of them couldn’t believe their eyes.

            Their solemn encampment had exploded into a vibrant paradise, like an oasis in the middle of a blistering desert. Music and laughter drifted from among the tents, and the place was much cleaner and livelier than it’d been before.

            They shuffled into camp like a herd of dumbfounded oxen, stunned when their armor, horses, and weapons were whisked away to be cleaned and men and women snaked around with baskets full of wet towels to clean their blood and dirt-stained skin.

            The fire was blazing and an array of juicy lambs were roasting on spits, wafting up into a delectable aroma.

            Patroclus rose up on his tippy toes, craning his neck to search for Achilles’ face among those of countless haggard men, and his heart kicked into a frenzy when he couldn’t find him. No sooner did he truly begin to panic did Achilles’ chariot reach the crest of the hill and clatter down into the encampment below, and Patroclus exhaled raggedly when he caught a glimpse of the plumes of Achilles’ helmet.

            He ran to him and they met in the middle, Automedon slowing the horses to a halt and grinning at him.

            “You were right,” he said, beaming. “The horses were a whole lot better today.”

            “I’m glad,” Patroclus laughed, though his eyes were already on Achilles, who was removing his helmet to bare his golden halo of hair to the late afternoon sun.

            “What did you do?” were the first words out of Achilles’ mouth, gesturing with his chin to the camp.

            The shape of his helmet was outlined on his head; the parts where it didn’t cover were stained with dirt and blood, but Patroclus cared little, pressing his lips to Achilles’.

            “I made it better,” he chuckled when they pulled away. “We did all your chores and then some. How were my soldiers? Did they serve you well?”

            “They were incredible!” Automedon cried before Achilles could even open his mouth. “They fought like demons!”

            “They killed the most Trojans,” Achilles agreed. “And none of them died, unless you count a horse that was struck thrice by arrows and had still kept running for a few yards before collapsing.”

            “And that exploding liquor! It’s otherworldly, like you stole some fire from Hephaestus’ forge,” Automedon chimed in. “How do you make it?”

            “That’s for my soldiers to know and you to never find out; what use would we be then if we didn’t have anything new to contribute?” Patroclus turned to Achilles. “Let’s cleaned you cleaned off.”

            They bade Automedon farewell before Patroclus dragged Achilles away by the arm, steering him through the crowd of people and toward the tent.

            “I could’ve just gotten one of those wet cloths your people were handing out.”

            Patroclus glared at him, though there was no heat behind it. He preened at the awed look on Achilles’ face as he regarded the bursts of flower and the multicolored flags swaying in the wind overhead.

            He seemed especially shocked at how his old tent had been replaced by an intricately patterned fabric woven with threads the color of a sunset and wreathed with flowers.

            “I changed up everything for you while you were gone,” Patroclus explained. “I’m sorry if you liked it how it was.”

            He all but dragged Achilles into the tent, and his beloved reeled as the scent of rose petals smacked into him. Patroclus lit some candles and revealed a tent that was unlike the one Achilles had left behind that morning.

            All of his war prizes had been neatly organized and the bed had been pushed to the far side to open it up and create more space. A pitcher of water and a washcloth were waiting for them on the dresser, and Patroclus buttoned the flap of the tent closed and gestured for Achilles to sit.

            “Patroclus…this is incredible—”

            “Don’t thank me. I had fun doing it,” Patroclus murmured, wetting the cloth and turning to him.

            Without breaking eye contact, he crawled into Achilles’ lap and straddled his legs, pressing the cloth against his face and wiping gently at the accumulation of grime on his cheeks.

            Achilles’ eyes fluttered, his hands rising up to knead Patroclus’ ass, and Patroclus laughed, kissing his nose.

            “Were the Trojans afraid?”

            “Very. They saw your horses coming and were thrown into complete chaos. They were easy to pick off from there.”

            “Were you brave?” wiping at Achilles’ lips and then leaning in to suckle on them, giving them a gentle nip.

            “I was,” he breathed, his hands sliding up to Patroclus’ hips so he could press Patroclus down further into his lap and offer some more fiction. “I killed twenty.”

            “That’s amazing, my strong warrior. I hope you did it in my honor.”

            “Everything I do is in your honor.” The words are too reverent on his tongue for it to be a lie or a joke, and Patroclus’ breath hitched.

            He finished cleaning Achilles’ face and peppers it with kisses just to make sure he didn’t miss anything, moving on to his arms. The washcloth smoothed over his golden muscles, which flexed and shivered when Patroclus pressed his lips to them. There was dirt and blood under his fingernails, and he had a few splinters from his spears, all which were dutifully taken care of.

            By the time Patroclus is finished, Achilles seems about to come apart in his hands like he was made of clay rather than flesh, and he quickly rids both himself and Patroclus of clothing in record timing, dragging him onto the bed.

            “I’ve already kissed you too much,” Patroclus whispered. “You’ll be sick.”

            “Does it seem like I care, _philtatos?_ ” Achilles snorted, leaning down to mouth up Patroclus’ chest and make him tremble. “You’re too beautiful to resist. It doesn’t help that you were doing your best to work me up.”

            “Touché.” The word bled into a gasp when Achilles’ teeth nipped up his neck and mouthed at his earlobe.

            “The things I’m gonna do to you…”

            “What will you do?” Patroclus murmured, quirking an eyebrow. A dare.

            “Things so lewd I can’t say them aloud.” Achilles whispers right in his ear, making a shiver go down his spine. “But it may involve us missing dinner.”

            “We shouldn’t risk that. Myria is an excellent chef; her lamb is to die for.”

            “I hate to break it to you, but nothing in this world is worth dying for except your ass,” Achilles snorted, reaching for the dresser to rummage around for oil.

            “I don’t know, Achilles.” Patroclus picked at the sheets. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            “You’re not going to hurt me. We won’t kiss on the lips, how about that?”

            “But—”

            “Do you not want to do this? I’ll stop if you don’t—”

            “No, no, I want this just as much as you, but…” He shook his head. “Maybe we should wait until we’re one hundred percent sure I’m safe.”

            Achilles sighed, weighing his options, before seeming to realize he couldn’t have sex with his beloved if he was dead. Grudgingly, he rolled off of Patroclus and turned to face him.

            “Fine. We’ll wait.” A pause, and then. “Dinner?”

            “Dinner,” Patroclus agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me so long to write this! I'm so sorry if you guys thought I gave up on this story, but I promise it's only because the chapters are so long! Please leave comments and kudos if you like it!!!


	4. The Gossamer Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Mentions of sexual assault, murder, graphic sexual content

**IV.**

**THE GOSSAMER GATES**

-

“Patroclus.”

Urgent hands shaking him.

“Patroclus!”

Patroclus raised his head wearily from among the lush cushions, yawning and stretching like a big cat. He rubbed his eyes and the blurry silhouette before him focused and sharpened into a very stern Achilles.

He was still in his undergarments, a group of worried messengers gathered at the door, and had obviously been roused in haste.

“What is it?” Patroclus grunted.

“What have you done?” was the hissed response, and only then did Patroclus realize the clamor outside, exclamations of shock and horror muffled by the walls of their tent.

His lips twisted slyly. “I’ve done nothing.”

“Then why is a soldier’s head mounted on a pike in the common area?”

Patroclus quirked an eyebrow. “It  _ was  _ part of the deal.”

“So you’re admitting to this?”

“Don’t worry, he was long dead before I’d cut off his head.” He rolled over with a sigh, the golden planes of his skin gleaming in the candlelight. “A bit of belladonna in the wine can do that to a person.”

“Belladonna?!”

“That’s what I just said. Do pay attention, my love.”

Achilles stomped over to the other side of the pallet so that Patroclus’ back wasn’t to him, and he was half-tempted to roll over again just to spite him.

“Why would you do this?”

“One of my soldiers came to me last night, her clothing torn and her body ravaged. She’d fended him off for the most part, had cut him up with her razor, but he’d gotten close to…” Patroclus trailed off, shaking his head. “I had to make good on my threat.”

“You could’ve shown mercy.” Achilles folded his arms over his chest. “His swordsmanship was unparalleled.”

“Oh, he was a swordsman, you say?” Patroclus’ hand flew to his heart in mock horror. “O gods, I’ve made a horrible mistake!”

“He was a good soldier.”

“Good soldier, bad soldier, what does it matter? I would’ve killed him even if he’d been Zeus’ uncle. What good is a threat if I’m never going to follow through with it?”

Patroclus propped himself up on the pillows, the sheets pooling around his hips.

“I had one condition for joining this army. One. And I expect that condition to be upheld.”

Achilles sighed, running his hands through his hair before shooing the messengers away and plopping down on the edge of the pallet, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his face in his hands.

Patroclus sidled up behind him, trailing kisses up his spine.

“Close the tent flap,” Patroclus ordered, his lips moving against Achilles’ skin.

Achilles’ eyes widened, and he froze like a man in the face of Medusa, his whole body going still as if he’d been turned to stone.

“Do I have to tell you twice?” Patroclus growled.

Achilles was on his feet in moments, buttoning up the tent so that no prying eyes could peer inside. Summer was creeping onto the shore, bringing with it a thick, heavy heat that hung in the air like a suffocating woolen blanket.

Patroclus gestured to the mattress and Achilles went obediently, wide-eyed and hopeful like a hound begging for scraps beneath a table.

“It’s been long enough.” Patroclus pressed his hand against Achilles’ chest, and Achilles sank down onto the pillows with a grin. “I’ve been here for a month and yet I’ve never been able to lie with you in the way I like.”

“And what’s the way you like?”

“Cunning of you to try to trick me into speaking my lewd perversions aloud.” Patroclus straddled Achilles hips, seizing his shoulders. “But returning to the subject, I believe I’ve shed all of my poison.”

“Yes,” Achilles breathed, throwing his head back when Patroclus began to slowly move against him. “Let me take off—”

Patroclus shushed him. “You’ll take your undergarments off when I tell you to take them off, godling.”

“Godling?” Achilles spluttered, but his protestations were quickly silenced as Patroclus smashed their lips together.

It felt good to kiss without worry, to claim each other’s mouths in the most debauching ways possible and being sure it wouldn’t kill Achilles in the process.

“I bet you’re excited,” Patroclus whispered, swiping his tongue over Achilles’ lip and running it along his teeth. “I’ve been chaste for many weeks. I bet I’ll feel more like a virgin than a whore at this point.”

“I wouldn’t care either way,” Achilles mumbled, his hands sliding down Patroclus’ back and smoothing over his ass almost reverently. “I just want you.”

“I want you too. Let’s see if we can both last longer than five seconds.”

Achilles laughed against Patroclus’ mouth, moaning softly as Patroclus rose up to his knees and slid Achilles’ underwear down. He himself had slept in the nude, so there wasn’t any other clothing to shed; kind of a disappointment to Patroclus, who preferred a little more foreplay.

“How to you want me,  _ Aristos Achaion _ ?”

“Whatever you want.”

Patroclus hummed, rolling over onto his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows. “There are too many positions to choose.”

“Which one pleases you the most?”

“Whichever one my beloved would like.”

Achilles grimaced, frustrated, but Patroclus was perfectly content to lie there and watch him until he came to a decision, swinging his feet in the air like a child.

After a while of Achilles musing, Patroclus prompted, “Do you want to fuck or should I put my clothes back on?”

“Stay like that,” Achilles decided, and Patroclus chewed on his lip, grinning as he watched Achilles rummage around for the oil.

Patroclus’ hair had grown out, and now it was a wild hedge of curls that made him seem all the more mischievous, like a wood nymph who’d crept from the forest to seduce the best of the Greeks. Patroclus looked more like a man now—hair on his legs and stubbling his jaw—and it made him glad to know that Achilles was actually attracted to he himself and not the meek, feminized version Adonis had created.

“I’m getting  _ awfully  _ bored just lying around,” Patroclus remarked, twirling a slip of his own hair around his finger while Achilles cursed and muttered to himself as he tore up the dresser in his search. “Perhaps I should go to Agamemnon’s tent and see if he’d be interested. I bet he has a much bigger, fatter c—”

“Shut up,” Achilles growled, and Patroclus laughed as Achilles ripped the bottle out of its hiding place and nearly tripped over his own feet getting back to the bed. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”

“Only when I’d like to be. Now hurry up.”

Achilles prepped Patroclus nice and slow despite his clear impatience, and Patroclus sighed, stretching out and letting his eyes flutter closed at the feeling that he’d been longing for ever since he’d burned down Elysium; although he’d hated almost all of his clients, he had to admit that he kind of missed the sex, especially since he’d quit cold turkey.

Going from having sex on an average of twenty times a day to having no sex at all could make even Patroclus—a resolute individual hell-bent on his own independence and ability to control himself—the biggest cock whore on this side of the Mediterranean.

“I’ve been thinking of you like this for months,” Achilles breathed, his fingers twisting, and Patroclus gasped softly. “Been thinking about all the things I’ll do to you.”

“I’m ready and eager for all of those things,” Patroclus deadpanned, trying to keep a straight face before both he and Achilles burst into laughter.

“I was hoping this would be sexier.”

“Too late for that now, I’m afraid.”

The ensuing sex was more like a reunion of old friends than a passionate clash of lovers. There was no especially lewd dirty talk, no over-the-top noises of pleasure, and no punishing pace that left them breathless and sweat-soaked.

Even as Achilles pushed into him, slick and slow, Patroclus laughed and prattled on about nonsensical things, the two of them giggling and murmuring to one another the whole time like gossiping schoolchildren at recess.

“Fuck.” Achilles nibbled a trail up the column of Patroclus’ spine, mouthing at the nape of his neck and nuzzling into his hair. “This is better than I could’ve dreamed.”

“Mm-hm,” Patroclus hummed, his eyes closed and his mouth open slightly as he relished in the familiar drag and burn that set his nerve endings alight. “I’m very happy with you.”

“Me too,  _ philtatos. _ ”

A shiver went down Patroclus’ spine at the endearment, his fingers twisting in the sheets as he basked in the light of Achilles’ approval and affection. He hadn’t thought he had a thing for praise, but apparently he did when Achilles was the one giving it.

Achilles’ hands smoothed up and down Patroclus’ back, testing the give of his skin beneath his fingers, and his mouth worshipped the dips and knobs of his spine. Patroclus wished more than ever that he could twist around to return the favor with his own mouth.

“You know, I think Pagrin and Aestia’s friendship is a bit more,” he remarked. “A ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement, if you know what I mean.”

“No way.” Achilles’ words were cut off by a shocked groan as Patroclus tightened around him. “Hey! Don’t do that. I’m trying to last.”

“Yes way,” Patroclus replied with a sly smile, completely ignoring the rest of what was said. “Briseis caught them stumbling out of Aestia’s tent with their clothing in arrears when she was on her way to supper last night.”

“Was this before or after you beheaded that soldier?”

“I just told you it was at supper. The beheading came much later.”

Achilles could only grunt in reply, and when Patroclus glanced over his shoulder, he could see the tension in his beloved’s expression, could feel the way his hands were tightening around Patroclus’ own.

“Lean down,” Patroclus commanded. “Press against me.”

Achilles obeyed, and Patroclus propped himself up on one arm and reached back with the other to clasp the back of Achilles’ neck, gasping as he started to buck against his thrusts.

The pace picked up, and Patroclus could feel Achilles’ hot, ragged breath against his ear as they moved against one another with increasing urgency.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Patroclus chanted, the words tumbling out of his mouth as the wave of pleasure he’d been riding began to crest. “ _ Shit. _ ”

It rose up inside of him like a volcano surging upward, and he would’ve let out the most horrific, disgusting moan ever just to embarrass Achilles and have it be the talk of the camp for the rest of the week, but he was too busy being dragged down into a delirium of bliss to think about spiting his beloved.

Patroclus’ arm gave out and he collapsed face-first into the pillows. Achilles tried to hold out a little longer, but resistance was futile as he tumbled over the edge and promptly crushed Patroclus under his weight.

“Oof,” Patroclus huffed as all the air was squashed out of his lungs, though he was too loose-limbed and pliant to do anything more than voice his complaints. “How’d you last longer than me?”

“I jacked off every night you were gone,” Achilles deadpanned, as if it were obvious. “That portrait does wonders for the spank bank.”

“I can’t wait to find that portrait and burn it.”

“That’s why I’ve made sure you’ll never find it.”

Achilles rolled off of Patroclus and gathered him up in his arms, kissing his face all over. “Though that was one of the most amazing things ever, I missed your beautiful face and lips.”

“I missed yours, too.”

Achilles’ hands clapped onto Patroclus’ ass. “Seeing this made up for it, though.”

Patroclus scowled and swatted Achilles’ head even as his beloved chuckled, and kissed his forehead.

“What will we do after the war?” Patroclus asked, running his fingers through the golden locks of Achilles’ hair. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” Achilles admitted softly. “I didn’t think I’d get that far, what with the prophecy and all.”

“Yes, but now I’m here to help make sure that prophecy never comes true.” He batted his lashes. “Can’t let the Trojans take away my only source of a good dicking, now can I?”

Achilles chuckled, worrying at his lip as his brows creased. “I think…maybe we could move to Crete.”

“Crete?!” Patroclus spluttered. “That place is a shithole.”

“True, but it’s a beautiful shithole,” Achilles insisted. “And because it is farther south, the water is so clear it looks like the boats are floating on air.”

“Floating boats don’t solve the shithole problem.”

“We won’t live in the cities, then. I’ll take my boat and war prizes and sail with you to an uninhabited shore for you and I to rule. We’ll build a palace together from the ground up and we’ll grow old at the seashore, spending our days laughing and dancing.”

“And fucking?”

“And fucking,” Achilles agreed with a snort. “As that portrait of you hangs in a golden frame on the mantle.”

“Though that’s tempting, there’s a little bit of a problem, lover boy.” Patroclus tapped Achilles’ nose chidingly. “What about your father and the Myrmidons? Aren’t you supposed to be king?”

“After this war, I’m gonna retire. I’ve learned that any hero who tries to stretch their time in the spotlight ultimately winds up dying a terrible death.”

“How smart of you,” Patroclus sighed, tracing his fingers over Achilles’ sculpted chest. “But it’s not a good idea to disappear. You need to carry on your legacy.”

“But how will we be together if I’m king of the Myrmidons?”

“Who says we won’t be together?” At Achilles’ awestruck expression, Patroclus rolled his eyes. “You’d be the king. It’s not like anyone of importance could tell you who you can and can’t love.” A pause, and then, “Perhaps we could get married.”

“That would be nice. You’d make for a stunning bride.”

“Who says I’d be the bride?” Patroclus prompted. “You were the one who passed for a woman in Skyros.  _ You _ wear the dress.”

Achilles pouted. “But you wear dresses all the time.”

“They’re silk robes. There’s a difference.”

“What if there was trickery involved? You glide up the isle with a heavy veil, disguising yourself as a princess from Sparta, only for you to tear off the veil after the final vows and send the whole audience into shock.”

“People would faint and riot.”

“But I thought you loved fainting and rioting.”

“They  _ are  _ entertaining,” Patroclus conceded. “But I’m not in for trickery this time. I don’t want to disguise myself. I want you to be proud of who I am, and I’m certainly not a woman.”

“I’ll always be proud of who you are. If you want a wedding with no disguises involved, then you’ll get a wedding with no disguises involved. We can use the palace in the summer and have that house on Crete in the winter.”

“Thank you, my love.” Patroclus kissed Achilles softly. “Consider my offer about the dress, though.”

The two of them burst into uproarious laughter.

They cuddled together for as long as they could before Briseis stormed into their tent to tell them they were lazy bums who had to get their asses out of bed before the battle started.

Despite this eventual interruption, it was still one of the best mornings of their lives.

 

\----

 

As the years dragged on, it became clear that this war couldn’t be won the old-fashioned way.

Every day, Achilles with his army and Briseis with Patroclus’ army would march to battle, and every day Patroclus would have to bury the ashes of his comrades and his lover’s comrades.

It was kind of ironic, in a way; all of the people he’d only just liberated now casualties in another man’s war.

Troy was unyielding. It was a fortress.

Guarded by gods and men alike, the armies couldn’t’ve breached its walls even if they did manage to wade through the countless enemy soldiers to get to the gates in the first place.

They tried countless tactics.

Siege. Frontal assaults. Launching firebombs over the gates. Arrow storms.

Hell, a priestess from Delphi even taught Patroclus and some of the other members of the Black Widow’s army a bit of basic witchcraft, but even then, nothing worked.

Apollo’s influence and protection were too powerful to be overcome, not even by a group of Greece’s most powerful warriors. If they were going to triumph, they, too, needed a god’s active aid, but Thetis hated Patroclus and his army too much to support them and the other gods on the side of the Greeks were too high and mighty to bother.

The whole situation was growing more and more hopeless as the months dragged on, and Patroclus was starting to think that his and Achilles’ lavish wedding and vacation house on Crete would be damn near impossible to attain if things continued in the direction it was going.

“Here are the makings of a sigil so powerful it could trap gods,” the woman from Delphi, Adelaide, said as candlelight cast ghastly shadows over her face. She gestured to a dark inking on parchment that looked like old barbarian magic from an age much older than Patroclus could possibly imagine. “The god must willingly enter the sigil, though. He cannot be forced.”

“What if we ask Apollo nicely?” Briseis suggested, and the assembled people in the tent laughed, but Patroclus was thoughtful.

A plan started to hatch in his head, but he had no idea what the specifics for it would be. Those would come later.

Of the army that Patroclus had originally brought to Greece, only about a third of them remained.

After realizing that the war wasn’t going to end anytime soon, many left to go start lives in the nearby towns—for surely the war front was no place to have a family—and others ventured off in groups to rescue more slaves suffering in brothels throughout the land.

Despite this, however, more people came than left, seeking the shelter of the Black Widow as they fled from parents intending to arrange marriages or masters who never spared the whip.

Not only had the Black Widow become a figure to be feared, he’d become a legend of astronomical proportions. From what Patroclus had heard from his scouts, men and women everywhere were building shrines in his name and sacrificing offerings to him.

“At this point, you’re a living god,” Briseis stated as they made their way to the beach, the stars gleaming overhead like a thousand gold coins spilled across the night sky. “People are worshiping you more than they worship the real gods.”

“That’s heresy,” Patroclus sniffed, adjusting his ceremonial silks—the silks he’d worn on the night he’d escaped from Elysium and taken Adonis’ head as payment for his sins. “I’m no god. I don’t have any special gifts like Achilles and I’m not powerful.”

“But you’re cunning,” Briseis whispered, and Patroclus turned sharply to her, though she didn’t meet his gaze. Her face was decorated with war paint. “Sometimes cunning is the most powerful gift of them all.”

They made their way to the beach, where a young girl and her son were kneeling side-by-side in the sand, their backs to the ocean and their heads bowed. Surrounding them on all sides were the masses of Patroclus’ soldiers, his people whom he had liberated and who had liberated themselves to join him. They were holding torches, spreading circles of light upon the dunes of sand and casting their shadows long across the ground.

The churning of the ocean was a calming background noise, soothing Patroclus’ nerves as he took a deep breath and schooled his features.

This was official business. He was no longer Patroclus now. He was the Black Widow.

The two looked up as he approached, and though the mother looked relieved, the boy seemed afraid of the bloody patterns decorating both his face and the faces of the others around him. He seemed especially unnerved by the red hourglass that blazed like brands on their foreheads.

“Do you fear me, child?” Patroclus asked, lowering himself to one knee.

The boy didn’t answer, cowering into his mother’s side. The mother looked slightly embarrassed, nudging her son with her elbow as if to coax a response out of him.

“He doesn’t need to answer me if he doesn’t wish to.” Patroclus rose to his feet, raising his voice. “Today, brothers and sisters, we are accepting another brother and another sister into our fold. We shall bring them beneath our wings of love and protection, just as I did for you all on your days of reckoning, whether your reckoning was the First Great Rebellion or your subtle escapes into the night from your own homes.”

A ripple of whoops and sparse claps that made the air shiver with the contained fervor of the assembled people.

“They’ve arrived not a day ago seeking to outrun the abuses of their master, who bought this young girl when she was twelve and forced her to bear him a child at thirteen. She is a girl no longer, but a woman, and her son is no longer the son of a slaver.”

“Aye!” they chorused.

“No longer shall this mother and son live in fear. No longer shall they live to serve the whims of a master whose goals aren’t in line with their own. Their lives are theirs and theirs alone now. They are slaves no longer! They are free!”

“Justice!” the people cried, their voices like rolling thunder. “Justice! Justice!”

Patroclus held out his palm to Briseis, who handed him a shallow dish of water.

“With this water, the water of gods and kings, I cleanse you of the past,” he stated, drizzling half of the dish onto the woman’s head and half onto the son’s. “It washes away the sins of those who wish to have them forgiven so they don’t haunt you in the present.”

Patroclus exchanged the dish of water for a dish of thick, sloshing blood that looked black in the light of the torches.

“Rise,” he ordered, and the two obeyed.

Water sparkled on their hair and faces, but despite the chill of the ocean winds, their eyes were alight with a triumphant fire.

Patroclus raised the dish, careful to make sure it didn’t spill.

“With this blood, the blood of the slaver, I anoint you for the future,” he boomed, dipping his finger into the dish.

Patroclus couldn’t remember the face of the man whose blood it was, but he did remember how the scoundrel had lorded over a brothel full of children and had subsequently gotten his throat slit as a result. Probably one of Patroclus’ most satisfying kills, if he was honest.

“Avenge your brothers and sisters who’ve fallen to the yoke of bondage and rescue those who may still be struggling and know not that there are people who may rescue them.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered closed as Patroclus painted the red hourglass onto her forehead, and when he turned to the boy, he didn’t cower but rather tilted his chin up in defiance. A soft smile graced Patroclus’ lips as he painted an hourglass onto the boy’s forehead, too.

Patroclus stepped back and raised his arms, spilling the rest of the blood into the sand and spitting on the stain.

“Death to the masters!” he cried like a preacher bellowing his prayers.

“Let our chains strangle them!” the assembled group chorused in response.

He’d never seen two people seem happier than the mother and her son were in that moment as the people bustled over to embrace their new family. 

_ This is why you do it,  _ Patroclus thought, smiling to himself.  _ This is what it’s all about. _

As more and more people came to join with the Greeks and the Black Widow, the camp grew into a bustling hub.

Tents were disassembled and replaced by stone buildings that tilted precariously when the wind was high, roads were paved to make way for horse carts and pedestrian traffic, and canals were dug so one wouldn’t have to go to the sea to get water for baths and sinks. To the untrained eye, it could pass for somewhat of a village.

Babies were born and elders died in this village, and Patroclus watched the boys turn into men and the men into old gits. The wheel of life was spinning right before him, and he was powerless to stop or slow its path.

He would’ve despaired under other circumstances—the prospect of dying in a foreign land against a foreboding enemy was quite unappealing—but he had Achilles.

“You’re so handsome after battle,” Patroclus hissed as he rode Achilles with abandon, his pace so punishing that Achilles could only hold Patroclus’ hips and hang on for dear life.

Achilles still had blood and dirt on his face and smelled kind of like a corpse, but the sight of him triumphant and strong always made Patroclus drag him back to the tent after his return every night.

Despite Patroclus’ fears that their love, spawned from desperation and haste, would deteriorate as time went on, it only strengthened until it was near-unbreakable. They had sex every night, multiple times more often than not, and despite this frequency it never lost that spark that made their intimate time together so wonderful.

Their sex even became something of a legend. Passerby spread rumors that Patroclus could go five rounds without rest and that once Achilles broke Patroclus’ pelvis on accident during a bout of particularly rough fucking.

That last part had been spawned from a semi-truth; Patroclus had in reality sprained a muscle in his thigh and that cracking noise hadn’t been his pelvis but rather the pallet snapping.

Had it been great sex? Yes. Had it been worth the rumors hatched in the aftermath? Also yes.

It was like they were trying to make up for the many months they’d lost, and it became a general rule around camp not to disturb Achilles or Patroclus after dinner, lest someone walked in at an unpleasant time.

“You’re like rabbits,” Odysseus remarked one day around the fire as Patroclus fed Achilles grapes while in his lap. “Back in my homeland, the adults used to warn the lads that if they fooled around too much one of them would pop out a kid like a woman.”

“As if!” Patroclus scoffed, feinting a grape out of the way of Achilles’ expectant mouth and popping it into his own. “People have told me many things about myself that I didn’t know. My newfound fertility is one of them.”

“What else have people told you?” Achilles asked, sipping at his wine.

“Well, there was one man who thought I stole slavers’ cocks and ground them into stew. He said that I didn’t cut them off, just…stole them. Like the slavers would wake up one day to a note that said that the Black Widow had swiped their willy.”

A burst of uproarious laughter.

“You’ll be stealing Achilles’ soon if you two don’t calm down,” Odysseus huffed, his cheeks a bit rosy from the wine. “It’ll come right off if you’re not careful.”

“It won’t!” Achilles snapped, though he turned to Patroclus for assurance as if there was an inkling of him that believed it.

“It’d be a nice souvenir,” Patroclus remarked. “How much would the Trojans pay for it if I tried to auction it off?”

“They’d kill you first.”

“Not true! They don’t know me.” Patroclus smile faded, growing thoughtful. “They know my name, not my face. I could saunter right through their gates without them ever knowing it was me.”

His mouth dropped open at the realization. “I could sneak into Troy!”

Achilles choked on his wine, coughing and punching his chest, and the whole group around the fire broke out into shocked exclamations and terse chuckles.

“You’re not serious,” Ajax snorted when he’d recovered.

“I am.” Patroclus slipped off of Achilles’ lap, beaming. “I can end this war.”

“You?” Odysseus prompted, though he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The one-man army?”

“I don’t need an army. I’ll…” He rubbed his head as the ideas came rushing into him all at once. “This war has been dragging on for years and we haven’t gotten any closer to triumph. It’s clear that the only way this city can be broken down is from the inside. I can do that.”

“That’ll never work,” Achilles deadpanned, trying to sound nonchalant, but Patroclus could see the way the firelight illuminated the fear in his eyes.

“How do you know?” Patroclus paced back and forth, wringing his hands and twirling his hair. “I’ll kill the officials off, one by one. I’ll kill Paris and his advisors and…”

“They’ll know something’s wrong. If people start dropping the moment you show up, they’ll find out it’s you.”

“Then I’ll make it so that it wasn’t me. I’ll level the blame on someone else. I don’t even have to kill them, just incapacitate them. Get them imprisoned or exiled.”

“And how will you do that?” Agamemnon chuckled, striding over from his throne—or rather, his glorified seat he liked to pass off as a throne—to plant himself in front of Patroclus.

No one was willing to point out how he hadn’t been in the conversation and had therefore been eavesdropping to know what was going on. “You’ll never best any of the Trojans in combat.”

“Does it look like I kill the majority of my victims in combat?” Patroclus prompted. “I’ll use tactics like how I do with the soldiers who harass my people.”

He gave a pointed look to the far hill, where the grinning skulls and fly-swarmed heads of at least a dozen men looked down upon the camp.

“Belladonna in the wine. On my lips. In their food. I’ll then plant belladonna in the quarters of some other unsuspecting shmuck I also want out of the picture.”

He turned in a slow circle, his eyes glittering like the sparks rising up from the flames. “It’s a fight they won’t know they’re having; they’ll think they have many enemies, but there’s really only one.”

“And how will you get to these advisors?” Agamemnon drawled, forcing one of the other soldiers out of his chair so he could sit. “The idea of the Trojans letting you into the city isn’t completely preposterous, but it’s not like they’ll allow you to swagger into the palace and kill all their advisors.”

Patroclus worried on his lip, stopping to think for a few moments spent in tense silence.

No one was laughing now, the crowd full of curious and hopeful faces.

“I’ll…” A pause, considering. “I’ll pass myself off as a slave fleeing the violence. I’ll ask for asylum in the city.”

“Absolutely not!” Achilles bellowed.

“Those gates may be steel on the outside, but they’re made of the thinnest of gossamer on the inside.” Patroclus rubbed his hands, working himself up into an excited fervor. “I’ll pretend that I was…enslaved here. I’ll pretend that I have information and will do anything to make sure I don’t get sent out of the gates again. I bide my time and gain their trust. Then I kill all of the higher-ups and then Paris. Even Apollo should watch himself.”

“Killing a kingdom from the inside?” Agamemnon spluttered, doubling over in a hearty laugh, and Patroclus’ mouth twisted. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You only say that because you know I have a chance.”

“It’s impossible.”

“I thought escaping enslavement was impossible and yet here I am.”

Agamemnon’s smile melted off of his face. “We can’t afford for you to die. Your supporters would abandon us.”

“Then I name Briseis the new Black Widow for the time being,” Patroclus deadpanned, and the girl in question almost choked on her food.

“What?!” she demanded.

“I have to try this. If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work.”

“I’m not risking it!” Achilles seized Patroclus’ shoulders. “I’m not losing you. Not again.”

“You won’t.”

Achilles’ lip trembled, his face contorting with rage but his misty eyes giving away his terror. “No. I’m coming with you.”

“They know you. They know your face. They’ll kill you on sight.”

Achilles wouldn’t look at him, rising up and storming off.

Patroclus excused himself to join his beloved back in their tent, sorrow twisting in his gut at the sight of Achilles slumped in the bed, tear tracks on his cheeks and his eyes screwed tightly shut.

Patroclus sat at the edge of the pallet like a doting mother, taking up one of Achilles’ hands from where it was fisted in the sheets and holding it in his own.

“I want you to survive this war, my love. I want these men and women to go home to their families.” Patroclus leaned in, murmuring, “I want our winter home on Crete. I want to grow old with you, and we can’t grow old while we’re at war. I promise I’ll return.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Achilles’ voice was raw and raspy.

“Very well,” Patroclus conceded, lying down beside him and running his hands through Achilles’ beautiful mane of golden hair. “If I live, I’ll return to you.”

“This might take many years. How will I know if you’re still alive?”

“You’ll just have to have faith. Kiss my portrait when you’re alone.”

“You know that’s not the same.”

“Then perhaps we should make the most of these next few days before I depart.”

Achilles lunged for him, and Patroclus gasped at the violent clash of smashing lips and clacking teeth. They practically tore their clothing off of each other’s bodies, baring their skin to the open air as the blankets tangled around them.  

“Did I close the tent flap?” Patroclus gasped as Achilles sucked a bruise beneath his jaw.

“What does it matter?”

“Children do live here, Achilles.”

“The tent flap is closed.”

After a haze of frenzied prep and sloppy kisses, Achilles knocked Patroclus’ legs open and slotted himself in between them, his hands digging bruises into his hips. Achilles cursed under his breath after a few missed jabs, eventually having to guide himself to Patroclus’ entrance before gliding into his body in one smooth thrust.

Patroclus was breathing hard, coasting on adrenaline as his heart pounded in his ears, and he wrapped his legs around Achilles’ waist as his beloved began to move, slowly at first but building in urgency.

“Oh, Achilles—” Patroclus threw his head back as Achilles began to pound into him like he was born to do it, his muscles rippling with every sinuous movement of his body. “Fuck!”

Achilles held Patroclus’ hips tightly, pulling Patroclus further into his lap with every thrust, and Patroclus was suddenly struck by a memory of their first night together, of Achilles’ timid touches and inexperienced motions, like a newborn colt learning to use his legs.  

Clearly that colt had grown into a handsome stallion since then, because Patroclus had never felt so laid bare in his entire life.

Achilles was panting, his face contorted in concentration and his hair falling into his eyes as he chased ecstasy, and Patroclus felt like he was looking into the face of a god.

“Harder,” he growled, untangling his fingers from the sheets to clutch Achilles’ shoulders. “Harder. C’mon, fuck me good.”

Achilles obeyed, exhaling raggedly as he somehow dredged up the strength to drill into Patroclus with even more ferocity. The pallet, newly reinforced following the last incident, was surely getting a workout, and even if the tent flap was closed, Patroclus was pretty sure that everyone who walked by would know what he and Achilles were doing.

It didn’t help that Patroclus was moaning and begging for it like the ex-whore he was, his mouth open and his eyes fluttering as Achilles pounded into him so roughly he could feel it in his throat. There was no pain, only pleasure that consumed him from the inside out, rising up in his chest and seeming to burn his sinuses like he’d eaten something hot.

Achilles kissed him like a man with nothing left to lose, but by that point they were so out of breath that it was more like breathing into each other’s mouths than actually kissing, their tongues tangling and their lips leaving bruises on one another.

In his haste to prep Patroclus, Achilles had clearly used far too much oil in the process. Patroclus could feel it dribbling down his thighs like the slick of a woman, soaking into the furs beneath them and making the loud slap of skin on skin all the more vulgar.

Achilles lifted Patroclus’ leg to hook around his shoulder and licked a stripe up Patroclus’ thigh to taste the oil there. The combination of that and how incredible the new angle felt made Patroclus keen, his hands shaking as he clenched down around Achilles and made the both of them groan.

“Oh…oh—” Patroclus had never been fucked speechless before, but apparently Achilles was planning on being his first for everything else since he couldn’t be his first lay.  

“You’re so handsome,” Achilles said breathlessly, turning his head to mouth at the junction between Patroclus’ thigh and calf, running his tongue over the sensitive skin there. “You’re gorgeous,  _ philtatos. _ ”

Patroclus could only nod and make a halfhearted  _ “You too”  _ gesture as his eyes rolled back into his head.

“Fuck, Pat, I think I’m gonna—”

His muscles locked up as he came with a shout, burying his face into Patroclus’ shoulder and sinking his teeth into the flesh there. Patroclus gasped, his hands flying up to tangle in Achilles’ hair as his hips stuttered for a few moments and stilled.

Still reeling, Achilles grabbed a hold of Patroclus’ cock, and before Patroclus could process what was happening, he tumbled over the edge, too, his body clamping down onto Achilles’ softening dick and making him go cross-eyed.

It took them both a long while to come down from the high, still tethered together and soaked in sweat from head to toe. It matted Patroclus’ hair to his forehead like a wet mop and beaded in the dips and furrows of Achilles’ face, which was so flushed it looked like he’d gotten slapped by the sun. The redness was less prominent on Patroclus’ darker skin, but he could feel the sweat beaded on his face and coalescing in the creases of his mouth and nose.

He shifted and his gut gurgled a bit, unhappy from being jostled around so much, and it was at that moment that Patroclus realized that he really, really had to pee.

“You can pull out now,” he muttered, his voice gone.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to get up and walk to the chamber pot after Achilles just completely blew his back out, but he’d damn well try; he was willing to try many things, but pissing on his beloved wasn’t one of them.

“No.” Achilles’ voice was muffled by the skin of Patroclus’ neck, and he ran his tongue over the bite mark to soothe the sting.

“I have to piss.”

“No.”

“Achilles—” Achilles was too heavy for Patroclus’ jelly-like arms to shove him off. “Come on, I gotta go.”

“What, you afraid Odysseus is right and you’ll pop out a kid if you lay on your back for too long after?”

“Shut up,” Patroclus growled, finally managing to unceremoniously roll Achilles off of him and gasping when his dick slid free. “Ugh you’re the worst.”

“I can’t wait to see you try to walk after that.”

Patroclus swatted at him, scooting to the edge of the bed and hissing when he sat up and hauled himself to his feet. He tottered a little at first like a child taking his first steps, and managed to stumble over to the dresser, get the chamber pot out from under it, and sway as he pissed a hefty amount.

“You look stunning right now. Wanna try for another round?”

“Seriously?” Patroclus snorted as he finished up and tucked the chamber pot back under the dresser. “I’m supposed to be the one with the sex drive here. You’re ruining my persona.”

“I’m serious.” Achilles deadpanned as Patroclus turned around to face him. “Stay there for a sec, let me take you in.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes but obeyed, having to plant one hand on the dresser to keep himself upright.

He supposed there was a bit of beauty and allure in his current debauchedness, in the way his hair was tousled, his skin shone with sweat, and various substances were starting to leak down his legs, but he just felt gross.

Achilles was allowed to look his fill before Patroclus grew impatient and hobbled back to the bed, collapsing on his stomach to take some pressure off of his aching ass.

He had to ride Arachne to Troy sometime in the next week. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea.

He gasped when he felt Achilles’ tongue sliding up the inside of his leg again, licking away mess there, and he pillowed his head on his arms and let his eyes slide shut as Achilles clambered behind him and starting lapping at Patroclus’ skin.

“Oh!” Patroclus yelped when Achilles’ mouth reached the more intimate places and his body jolted in shocked surprised. “Hey!”

Achilles hummed, nuzzling Patroclus’ ass before draping over his back like a hot, sweaty blanket.

“Are you serious?” Patroclus prompted when he felt Achilles hardening against him.

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.” Achilles leaned down to nip at Patroclus’ ear.  “I was thinking that maybe…” A heady silence. “Maybe you could fuck me when you get back.”

Patroclus’ eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes, really. It always seemed unfair that you were always the one taking it up the ass.”

“I, personally,  _ love _ taking it up the ass, especially when it’s your dick I’m taking. Topping is fun, but it’s too much work.”

“I used to be nervous about it. I thought I’d be less of a hero if I…you know. But you changed that.” Achilles rolled off of Patroclus, turning to face him and throwing his arm over his back. “You’re so brave. You’re more of a hero than I ever will be. If you come back from Troy, I’ll let you fuck me.”

“Not before?” Patroclus pouted.

“Not before.”

“But what if I die?”

“You’d better not die, then.”

 

\----

 

After a week of planning, rehearsing, and frantic fucking, Achilles finally had to say goodbye.

Winter was just starting to creep up on them, a chill blowing in from the ocean and stirring in the air, and clouds had tumbled in from the west, blanketing the sky in an overcast grey that perfectly reflected Achilles’ mood.

They were in the heart of camp, saddling up their horses in preparation after Patroclus’ many tearful goodbyes with his people. Achilles had had no such goodbyes with his own men.

After Patroclus was gone, he’d have no one. He’d be completely and utterly alone.

“Don’t go,” he begged Patroclus, a last-ditch effort to keep his beloved by his side. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you,” Patroclus murmured, wiping away the tears that had made their way down Achilles’ face and pressing a gentle kiss against his lips. His hand hovered over Achilles’ heart. “A part of me will always be with you.”

“But—”

“I will do everything in my power to come back.” Patroclus allowed Achilles’ arms to wrap around him and hold him close. “Even if it means fucking and killing all the men in Troy and slaying a god, I  _ will _ come back to you.”

“I don’t want you to fuck other men and kill gods,” Achilles almost sobbed. He knew he sounded like a child on the borderline of hysterics, but he was losing his other half.

His only love. His only friend.

They’d gone over this many times, how Patroclus would probably have to seduce the higher-ups to get them to trust him, but it only added to Achilles’ anguish. Patroclus must’ve seen it in his eyes, because he kissed Achilles again.

“I returned to you after Elysium, did I not? Who says I won’t return now?” He pressed their foreheads together. “I’ll return, even if I have to make the rivers run red with blood, open up fissures in the earth, and make the walls of Troy blow in the wind like leaves.”

Achilles could only nod tearfully.

He wondered if this was how Patroclus had felt when he’d stayed behind at Elysium.

Helpless. Desperate. Alone.

For a moment, his sorrow was so sharp that he contemplated ordering Patroclus chained and imprisoned to keep him put, for surely no war was worth living with this sorrow for however long it took for Patroclus to come back—if he ever came back.

But he knew that their love would boil into anger and mistrust if he did that, so he let Patroclus kiss him hard for as long as they could.

He let Patroclus go when they sounded the horns, let Patroclus slip through his fingers like water through a sieve.

He let Patroclus climb atop his gigantic black steed in his billowing silks, the early sunlight piercing through the clouds and making the tips of his hair burn gold.

He let his pitying men guide him to his chariot and said nothing to Automedon as the charioteer hitched the horses.

_ This is grief,  _ he realized.

With a heavy heart, he strapped on his helmet, and took up his spear.

“You alright, sir?” Automedon asked, though both of them knew it was a stupid question.

There was no point in lying.

“No,” he rasped, his eyes not leaving Patroclus.

His beloved’s expression was schooled, but his lips were trembling and his hands were picking at his silks in the way that they did when he was upset. But they were putting on a show now, and he was the main event. He didn’t have a helmet to hide his tears.

Patroclus turned to him one last time, a single tear trailing down his cheek.

_ I love you so much,  _ he mouthed.

Before Achilles could answer, he’d spurred Arachne into a gallop and she was off like a shadow, flying up the hill and toward Troy.

Here came the worst part, the one that had Achilles sniffing miserably and made his hands tighten around his spears.

There was a long while of tense silence as they waited for the drum of Arachne’s hoofbeats to fade, before they sounded the horn again, this time loud enough for it to be heard all the way in Troy.

“Don’t follow him too closely!” Agamemnon bellowed before whistling to his horse and charging on the same path Patroclus had gone.

Achilles gritted his teeth before nodding to Agamemnon, who whipped up the stallions so they followed in hot pursuit.

Achilles, Agamemnon, Briseis, and about fifty other soldiers on horseback peeled away from the camp and charged up the hill like wolves on a hunt.

When they reached the crest, Achilles caught a glimpse of Arachne not too far from their position and well on her way toward the gates of Troy in the distance. So many times he’d charged up his hill to fight the Trojans, and all those times he’d never felt the same kind of fear he felt in that moment.

He was, in fact, fighting the Trojans again. Only this time, he was fighting them by driving Patroclus right into their willing arms; Achilles could see the glint of the archers’ armor as they scrambled on the battlements, watching to see how this would unfold.

“Archers!” Agamemnon bellowed, and Achilles winced as several soldiers, including some of Patroclus’ own people, knocked arrows from their bows.

They sailed through the air like deadly rain, and for a moment Achilles held his breath.

_ THEY’RE GOING TO HIT PATROCLUS THEY’RE GOING TO HIT PATROCLUS THEY’RE— _

__ __ The arrows buried themselves into the ground, many coming within feet of Arachne, but none found their target.

“Help!” Patroclus’ voice sounded like music drifting on the wind, even when tinged with mock fear that sounded so real Achilles wanted nothing more than to call it all off and drag him back into their tent to protect him. “Please help me!”

The archers’ scramble became even more frenzied, and Agamemnon ordered the archers to loose more arrows, all which missed.

“Open the gates!” Patroclus screamed, and Arachne ran harder, her muscles pumping and froth streaming from her mouth.

“Achilles!” Agamemnon bellowed, and Achilles’ lungs turned to lead in his chest.

_ Breathe,  _ he thought as he hefted his spear.  _ You’ve never doubted your skills. Don’t start now. _

__ __ He aimed, his hands trembling and sweat dribbling down his temples, before he hurled the spear with all his might. His eyes tracked its fall like villagers tracking shrapnel from a volcanic eruption descending upon their homes, and for a split second the spear looked like it would hit its target and bury itself right through Patroclus’ chest.

His mouth opened in a scream that was beginning to rise up in his throat before the spear stuck itself into the ground a mere inch away from Arachne’s right side, making the mare spook.

“Please let me in!” Patroclus wailed, clinging to Arachne’s mane for dear life. He repeated it in Anatolian, “ _ Please let me in! Please! _ ”

He was close now, definitely close enough for his voice to be in range.

More arrows flew, all of them missing by a safe amount, but whenever Achilles wracked up enough courage to throw another spear, it always landed close enough to shave the hairs off of Patroclus’ head.

“Please, they’ll kill me!”

Arachne skidded to a halt in front of the gates, rearing up with a screech.

Patroclus glanced frantically over his shoulder, but Achilles was too far away to take in the beautiful dips and planes of his face. It looked blurry and indistinct, like he was wearing a mask.

_ That could’ve been the last time you will ever see his face. _

__ __ Patroclus was addressing the archers directly now. “I seek sanctuary! Please, I beg for asylum! They’ve held me prisoner for years now and—”

An archer bellowed something that Achilles couldn’t quite make out.

“Please, sir! Please! I have many things to offer—”

Achilles and his men were getting closer now, too close for comfort. If they didn’t let Patroclus in soon, they’d have to go through the procedure of capturing him and dragging him back to the camp. If that was the case, then their whole plan would go to shambles; it’s not like they could try the same trick again if the Trojans didn’t even fall for it the first time.

“Have mercy!” Patroclus sobbed. “Have mercy!”

More shouting. More movement on the battlements.

Silence.

“No!” Patroclus screamed, riding as close as he could to the gates on Arachne and slamming his fists against them. “Please!”

For a moment there was a man perched atop the wall, haloed in sunlight despite the overcast sky and whose face was plunged in shadow. He leaned in and said something to one of the soldiers, and in the blink of an eye was gone, disappearing like mist.

Patroclus was crying in earnest now, his eyes wide an afraid as they turned to regard the approaching battalion.

A part of Achilles was relieved. They’d drag Patroclus back to camp and then neither of them would have to worry about parting ever again. They’d win the Trojan war the old way and then he and Patroclus would get married and build a winter home on Crete.

Then the gates groaned, metal squealing and cogs grinding as the doors opened up a tiny crack.

Soldiers swarmed Patroclus through the small opening, their spears pointed outward in a bristling defense as they escorted Patroclus and his horse inside.

Achilles and Patroclus’ eyes met for a single instant and then he was gone, the soldiers crowding in after him before the gates slammed closed with a note of finality.

Achilles’ scream sounded like one of rage to the Trojans, but to the Greeks on the other side of the battlefield, it was a wail of grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter, everyone! I'm sorry it takes so long to update, it's just that these chapters are huge and I have to have a burst of inspiration to really work on them.
> 
> Please leave a comment, kudos, and perhaps a few predictions on what you think will happen next! I always love reading them!!!!


	5. The Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Sexual assault, mentions of past rape

**V.**

**THE NEST**

-

“Please, I’m begging of you, Your Majesty. I seek asylum and nothing more.”

Patroclus had spent a lot of his time on his knees for a lot of different reasons, but this had to be a first; not once in his life had he knelt before a king and his court to plead for sanctuary.

The throne hall could easily fit ten dozen people within its confines, boasting soaring ceilings and gigantic windows that made it seem like the room was trying to stretch its way up to the heavens and knock the gods from the clouds.

The throne itself, which the guards had made Patroclus submit before, was bedecked in gold and precious stones that must’ve cost a fortune; if someone had sold it off, the money could’ve fed a whole city for a year.

Atop that throne sat none other than King Priam of Troy. His sons, Paris and Hector, stood flanking him, and the seats of the king’s advisors were fanned out on either side. Most of the advisors were old, weathered men who hadn’t touched a sword in years but still considered themselves warriors, and their combined scrutiny made Patroclus feel ill at ease.

If he hadn’t been in the throne hall of the king and had instead met these men on the streets of some Greek city, he would’ve warned them to quit staring or face his wrath. He’d killed for less.

Unfortunately for Patroclus, the word had seemed to have gotten out about his arrival, and countless nobles had clustered into the room to watch the situation unfold as if they were watching an Athenian drama.

All of them were dressed in lavish clothing and glittering finery, a bunch of haughty peacocks strutting around without a purpose but to look pretty, and the grandeur of it all gave Patroclus a tug of something he could almost remember. It was familiar, the Trojan throne room and the people in it, but the life that was lived behind these walls seemed so foreign that Patroclus wondered if he’d ever been a prince at all.

“State your name.” King Priam’s words rose above the murmur of voices from the gossiping nobles, and his grating baritone sent a shiver down Patroclus’ spine like nails scraping across stone.

He withered under the countless gazes, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like the wings of a bird trying to break free from his chest. His nervousness, his fear that he would slip up and give himself away, made his act a half-truth; he was afraid, yes, but for different reasons than what he was describing.

“Judas…my name is Judas,” he stammered, wanting nothing more than to fold in on himself and disappear; he felt out-of-place here, like the palace itself was judging him.

He was no longer a part of this world, a world of luxury where power was handed down through the generations on a platter. Patroclus had  _ earned _ his power, had fought for it tooth and nail, whereas these nobles were merely reaping off of the labor of their ancestors.

“Well, Judas,” King Priam’s voice was a growl. “I don’t know if you know this, but I would look like a fool if I allowed you to just saunter into my city, riding to the gates on a Greek horse and speaking the tongue of a Greek nobleman. What’s stopping me from hanging you and displaying your corpse on the battlements?”

“I am desperate, Your Majesty. I…I stole the horse. From the Black Widow’s army.”

“You did?!” Paris cried, his mouth snapping shut when King Priam and Hector glared at him in nearly comical unison. In a much more measured voice, he said, “I hear the Black Widow’s soldiers are ruthless. You must have great skill if you were able to sneak past whoever guards the horses.”

Although the compliment seemed to have come from a genuine place, the hatred that Patroclus felt for these three men—the ones whom he despised most in the world—made his hands tremble, though the spectators around him mistook it for fear.

“Is this true?” King Priam demanded, sitting up taller on his throne. “Did you steal that horse?”

“I did, Your Majesty. There was no other way to escape from them.”

“I assume by ‘them’ you mean the Greek army.”

Patroclus nodded, keeping his gaze pinned to the floor as his jaw clenched. He wasn’t sure if he could get these next words out, but he thought of Achilles and how he was counting on Patroclus, and that was enough to steel his nerves.

“I was…imprisoned in the Greek camp,” Patroclus murmured.

“Speak up, Judas.”

“I was imprisoned in the Greek camp,” he repeated, ducking his head at the shocked whispers that resonated throughout the assembled onlookers. “I was…I was imprisoned and…and…enslaved.”

“Enslaved?” King Priam grunted. “What for? You’re not a prisoner of war.”

“I was unlucky.” Patroclus swallowed around the lump in his throat, his eyes stinging with tears that weren’t quite fake. He hated lying. Hated slandering his beloved. He’d rather be doing anything else. “On their route here, the Greeks made…stops along the way.”

Patroclus looked around, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. “I’m afraid the details are…unsavory for a king’s court.”

“Speak truth,” Hector hissed. “Sparing any details may cost you your life.”

“But—”

“Speak truth!”

_ If the life of my beloved didn’t rely on you staying in one piece, would rip you to shreds and feed your intestines to my dogs,  _ Patroclus thought, fighting the scowl from his face.

“I…I was a whore at a brothel,” he admitted finally, flinching at the chorus of gasps that bombarded him from all directions. “The soldiers stopped there one night to have some fun during their long journey to Troy and…”

Patroclus trailed off.

“And?” the king prompted.

“And… _ Aristos Achaion.  _ Achilles. Took a special interest in me.”

The name sent ripples through the nobles, and the advisors all wore matching expressions of dismay and suspicion. Many of them looked about ready to send Patroclus to the gallows.

Patroclus continued, “He…he kidnapped me during the night. Took me on the ship and brought me to the shores of Troy with his soldiers. He had a feeling the war would drag on, and he wanted something to…to entertain himself with.”

“What did you do?”

“I…I couldn’t do anything. He was…cruel, and I learned to fear him. He would do things to me that made me wish I was dead. He was possessive. Obsessive; I wasn’t allowed to leave his tent because he feared his soldiers would try to take…a turn with me. He spent every waking moment with me when he wasn’t in battle.”

Patroclus pulled his silks tighter around himself. “I knew I had to be free of him one way or another, whether it meant escaping or killing myself. Those were my only options.”

“But you’re a whore!” one of the advisors barked. “Aren’t you supposed to like that sort of thing?”

“Whoredom is a job with a salary,” Patroclus hissed, his eyes turning hostile. His fury about the whole situation was leaking into his words. “This was slavery. It was…absolute misery. He would do his best to hurt me, to make me hate myself. He loved it when I cried and begged.”

“That is a very awful situation, Judas, but I have many mouths to feed in Troy,” King Priam said with pitying eyes. “I cannot afford to take in another, especially with so many already starving.”

“Please—”

“I won’t kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you can’t stay in the city. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have the guards escort you out.”

“No!” Patroclus cried, uncaring of the shocked exclamations that came in the wake of the blatant disrespect to the king. Bile rose up in his throat as is desperation bubbled to the surface. He was so close. He couldn’t fail now. “They’ll find me! I can’t go back!”

Patroclus clasped his hands in front of him as if in prayer, bowing his head. “Please, Your Majesty. I would rather die than return back to Achilles. I need my suffering to end. I need to be at peace.”

“You have nothing to offer this city but your whoredom, and that isn’t something that the citizens of this city need right now.”

“I do have something to offer!” Patroclus insisted. “I have information!”

King Priam exchanged a look with his sons as the advisors and the nobles clamored with one another.

Patroclus had piqued their interest. Now all he had to do was hold their attention long enough to garner their support.

“I spent many years in the Greek camp. I can tell you everything I know, everything Achilles has disclosed to me in passing and everything I’ve seen in my hours outside of my tent.”

“I think we should let him stay,” an advisor piped up. His gaze met Patroclus’, and he nodded slightly, though there was a hungry glint in his eyes that reminded Patroclus of his suitors at Elysium.

“Don’t be foolish, Brion,” another advisor snapped. “What information could a…a  _ bed slave  _ possibly have?”

“It depends. Are we talking about normal bed slaves or the bed slave of Achilles himself? One whom Achilles clearly confided in.”

“Enough!” King Priam bellowed. “I’ve decided it. Judas will stay here with us for the time being. If his information proves to be useful, he shall stay here at the palace as a reward for his valor.”

Needless to say, Patroclus wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Thus began the reign of the Black Widow.

\----

In the wild, a mother cuckoo bird lays her egg in the nest of a warbler, hiding it cleverly among the warbler’s own clutch. The cuckoo flies off afterward, never to be seen again and saddling the warbler with the unfortunate task of raising someone else’s kid.

The warbler never notices, of course, even after the eggs hatch and one of the offspring is significantly larger than all of the others. She tirelessly works to feed her brood, whose numbers dwindle as the large chick shoves the other chicks—the warbler’s own chicks—out of the nest.

Eventually, all of the warbler chicks are gone and nothing remains but the cuckoo chick, large and squalling—much bigger than the warbler herself.

A part of her knows something is wrong, knows that this child wasn’t borne from her own eggs and isn’t her blood, but her instincts to care for the chick are too strong, and she nurses it to adulthood, where it flies away to go lay its eggs in another warbler nest.

And so the cycle continues.

The Trojans, much like the warbler, had no idea that there was a cuckoo in their midst.

“Don’t drink that!” Patroclus cried, lunging from his seat to slap a drink out of an advisors’ hand, but it was too late.

The man began to choke, his face turning purple as blood burst from his mouth. The glass fell from his fingers and he toppled from his chair, seizing and frothing as blood streamed from his nose and mouth.

The panicked dinner guests leapt from their chairs, some running over to try to help while others fled the room in a tizzy. King Priam rose from his seat at the head of the table, his face pinched as the various nobles and advisors tried to save their comrade in vain.

Patroclus wanted nothing more to wrap his hands around the victim’s fat neck and finish the job, but he had a role to play. Feigning horror, he whirled on the one who’d been sitting on the dying man’s other side and jabbed an accusing finger at him.

“What did you put in his drink?!” Patroclus bellowed as the victim let out a strangled noise and went limp in the arms of another advisor, his eyes staring off into nothing.

The others turned to watch the accused with contorted expressions, though their eyes betrayed their fear. Hector was out on the battlefield and Paris was manning the battlements with the other archers, but they would no doubt hear of this soon enough once those who’d fled spread the word.

“Excuse me?!” the man, Antenor, demanded.

He was one of the king’s most trusted advisors and had fathered a great many Trojan warriors, but he was a mere warbler chick and the cuckoo was closing in on him.

One of the other noblemen seized him, patting around his robes, and gasped when his hands closed around the vial of belladonna that Patroclus had planted in his pocket.

The terror in Antenor’s eyes was so genuine that it almost made Patroclus sorry for the poor guy, but nevertheless he cried, “Poison! He put poison in his wine!”

“Antenor!” King Priam roared, his expression full of betrayal. “How could you do this?”

“I didn’t!” Antenor stammered, trembling so hard that it made his golden jewelry rattle. “I didn’t…that…that’s not mine! It wasn’t in my pocket when I sat, I swear!”

King Priam bowed his head, his lips pursing into a thin line as his wife rubbed his back. There was a long moment of tense quiet as the group waited for the king’s verdict, filled only by Antenor’s ragged panting, before Priam gestured with his chin to the guards.

Antenor was dragged out of the room, kicking and screaming of his innocence, and everyone watched him go in sullen silence until his pleads for mercy faded. The corpse, too, was removed from the room in preparation for burial.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty” Patroclus sniffed, wiping at his eyes and bowing as King Priam came over. “I tried to warn him, but I wasn’t fast enough—”

“Don’t feel guilty, Judas,” the king assured, putting a hand on his shoulder. “There was nothing else you could’ve done.”

Patroclus’ eyes slid up from the floor, a small smile twisting his lips at the name, though he made sure that his eyes didn’t go dry. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Perhaps you should retire to your chambers for the night. I fear Antenor might seek revenge upon the one who exposed him.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Patroclus bowed and stalked out of the room, preening under the intense scrutiny of the other noblemen. He knew that they hated him, knew that they didn’t trust a Greek, even one betraying his own people, but it was immensely satisfying to know that they didn’t have enough evidence to convict.

He’d just struck down two birds with one stone. The poison victim was directly out of the picture, and Antenor would most likely be publicly executed by the end of the week, depending on when the king passed the sentence.

Two top Trojans out of the running, two more rivals knocked out of the nest.

Patroclus hadn’t been in Troy for long.

Two months? Three? He’d lost count.

But since his arrival, the number of Trojan noblemen had dwindled. The king, ever the mother warbler, took no notice of the correlation; Patroclus made well sure to cover up his tracks. Whether he framed others for his crime or set up the situation so the noblemen could only agree that the victim had had it coming, there was always more evidence for another cause then there was evidence against Patroclus.

Kalios, great man and even greater warrior, strangled in a gambling den after witnesses say he cheated at cards.

Dithies, mastermind of battle strategy, supposedly murdered by his own brother following a scandal with the inheritance from their deceased father.

Xarvith, devout priest with a nasty habit of targeting children, bludgeoned to death in the bed of a whorehouse.

“Thank you so much,” Patroclus said as he placed a pouch of silver into the expectant hand of the prostitute, who still brandished the weapon in her hand—a rock slathered with blood, gore, and perhaps a bit of Xarvith’s brains.

“Although you pay me back with money, I’m still indebted to you,” she stated. “The Black Widow is always welcome in this brothel.”

Of course, this was a reference to when Patroclus had slit the throat of the pimp and had helped the whores of the brothel grind his corpse up into paste for the pigs outside.  

“Naturally. Tell me if any of you need anything, ever. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

She nodded, and that had been that.

The noblemen started speaking of madness, of restlessness from being locked up behind the city walls for so long.

“It seems that everyone is tired of war,” a retired war general remarked at lunch one day. “They wish to see its end, even if they have to kill others or themselves.”

Patroclus always nodded along and agreed wholeheartedly, even making some contributions of his own to the theory. Better to be a militant supporter of lies that helped his cause than to support the truth that would get him killed.

He was glad he was able to operate from the inside; he’d been worried that, following his confession and sharing of the Greeks’ supposed secrets, they would throw him out onto the streets of Troy despite what they’d promised, but King Priam was foolishly merciful and had kept to his word.

There were, however, some unwanted attentions that came along with living in close proximity with the noblemen of Troy, many who knew just enough about him to make them dangerous; although the characters in Patroclus’ story had been switched around, the trauma had been real.

He’d drawn from his fears of Adonis’ fantasies of keeping him as a live-in plaything, and the emotions were raw and ugly even if the tale itself was a farce.

“What are you doing here?” Patroclus asked.

It was Brion, the Trojan diplomat who’d vouched for him during the first meeting. He’d somehow found his way into Patroclus’ room even though Patroclus didn’t remember telling him of its location.

“I just wanted to see you,” the man drawled, his green and gold robes brushing the ground and making his body appear cylindrical, almost like an ugly, pigheaded cactus. At least the cactus didn’t try to hide the fact that it was a prick. “I wanted to talk.”

“Really?” Patroclus asked. He tried to keep his voice measured; there was currently a corpse under his bed that he had to dispose of; it had been a few days and it was starting to smell. “About what?”

Brion sniffed a few times, crinkling his nose, but the overpowering smell of the lavenders Patroclus had clustered in the room curbed his suspicion. “About you.”

Patroclus didn’t want to talk, but nevertheless plastered on a smile and gestured to the table and chairs in the corner of his room.

Over his weeks of being at the palace, he’d learned that, despite having stood up for Patroclus in the throne room, Brion was even more wicked than all the rest of the Trojan nobles. He claimed to want peace, claimed to be willing to go and negotiate and do his job as a diplomat, but in reality, he was just puppeteering from the sidelines, bidding to push the war further so he wouldn’t have to venture behind enemy lines and risk getting killed.

A coward broken down to its barest of essentials.

Patroclus had planned to kill him twice, but both times another hapless fool had proven to be a better target; Brion was cruel and Patroclus hated him, but he had to go for the easy kills, not the ones that would satisfy him the most and risk exposing him. The corpse beneath his bed would probably agree with his strategy.

“Why do you want to talk about me?” Patroclus asked, lowering himself down into his seat and scratching his neck absently.

The clothes that King Priam had given him were bothering him, a reminder of his time with his father, and he hated the weight of the cotton against his skin. Though the clothes weren’t exactly heavy, compared to his silks they felt like leaden blankets.

“I wanted to ask you for your…company,” Brion deadpanned, not even bothering to maneuver around the point. He leaned forward, covering Patroclus’ hand with his own. “I understand that you’ve had terrible experiences with this sort of thing.”

Patroclus yanked his hand back to his chest, folding his arms and turning his head away. If he withdrew, Brion would follow, and Patroclus could then lure him in closer and closer like a fish on a line until Brion realized, belatedly, that he was trapped in the midst of a web with nowhere to run but into the jaws of the Black Widow.

“I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk about it,” Patroclus murmured.

“I understand that, Judas.”

__ __ Brion continued on, “But I think a way to help cope with your experience would be to replace your old memories with good, new ones.”

He tried to reach out for Patroclus’ hand again, to pry it away from the confines of his folded arms, but Patroclus rebuffed him once more, cold.

“I saw you that day when you pled for asylum, saw into your very soul. I saw the tears streaming down your face when you spoke of the atrocities done to you by Achilles and those awful Greeks. It was the reason why I vouched for you. You’re a brave, beautiful man, Judas, and I wish to make you happy.”

“I can’t trust men who aren’t whores,” Patroclus said. “I can’t trust anyone but my own.”

“You trust the king.”

Patroclus didn’t respond, and Brion’s eyebrows climbed up to his forehead as he leaned back in his chair. “So you don’t trust the king. Why is that? Even after all he’s done for you?”

“I keep expecting His Majesty to throw me out,” Patroclus admitted. “What use am I, anyway? He’s got his information, and now I’m just here in the palace, taking up room and eating his food.”

“His Majesty would never throw you out,” Brion assured. “He’s a merciful man.”

_ Too merciful,  _ Patroclus thought. Aloud he said, “I don’t think he’ll keep me around after the war is over.”

“I doubt it,” Brion agreed. A pause, and then, “But you could always come to live with me.”

Patroclus’ eyes widened, a genuine reaction. The comment had caught him by surprise.

What was with older men propositioning Patroclus and inviting him to be their live-in plaything for the rest of his days? Either it was a trend, or Patroclus was just unlucky enough to meet the only two men with such perversions. How could Brion possibly think it was appropriate to ask Patroclus to do such a thing when he knew of Patroclus’ “past” which involved that same exact concept?

“I couldn’t,” he said, recovering quickly from his shock. “I need to make my own living. Move away and start my own life.”

“I have a house far south. It’s totally different there than it is in Greece. There are lions and elephants there.”

“I want to be independent. I don’t want to be mooching off of anyone.”

“You don’t have to mooch off of me. You can make your own money while still living in my house, and I’ll even ask for rent if you really want me to.”

“I don’t know,” Patroclus sighed, turning away. “You’re a stranger.”

“I don’t have to be,” Brion murmured, his voice growing low. “We have the chance to get very, very acquainted right now.”

Patroclus smirked while his face was hidden.  _ There it is. _

__ __ He mustered up his best blush before looking back. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“I’ve heard rumors of your expertise.”

“From whom?” Patroclus asked, very much aware of who it probably was; he’d let one of Brion’s personal escorts fuck him for the bag of silver he’d used to pay off the prostitute that killed Xarvith.

“From little birds. On the grapevine,” Brion mused, and Patroclus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at how full of himself the diplomat was. “I’d like to experience it for myself.”

“It’ll cost you,” Patroclus drawled, lowering his eyes.

“Oh, but surely you’d make an exception for a friend? One willing to house you for free, no less.”

_ Friend? This is the third conversation we’ve ever had,  _ Patroclus thought incredulously.

“It’s still going to cost you,” he insisted, putting a growl behind his words. “I don’t let people use my body for free anymore.”

Brion nodded slowly, a smile twisting his lips. “Ah, I see. Such a cunning young man, turning his past woes into power.”

“A nice body gives you more power than you know,” Patroclus warned, one of the only honest things he’d ever said to anyone in Troy.

He allowed Brion to lead him to the bed—not before acquiring a hefty amount of silver and gold, of course—and lie him down on his back. Patroclus hoped Brion wouldn’t smell the corpse from such a close proximity. The bed was soft, giving gently beneath Patroclus’ weight, and it reminded him of his pallet back in his and Achilles’ tent, lush with blankets and warm from lingering body heat.

The thought only served to make him bitter.

It must’ve shown on his face, because Brion leaned down to kiss him gently. It was one of the most tender kisses he’d ever had from someone who’d paid him, and if Patroclus closed his eyes, he could imagine Achilles was the one doing it, not some twisted diplomat who only cared about getting into Patroclus’ pants.

“Open your eyes, my angel. They’re so beautiful.”

Patroclus was only barely able to smother his scowl as he complied, hiding the twisted anger on his face in a bashful dip of his head. He slid Brion’s lavish robes down to his hips, mouthing along his chest and absolutely hating the taste of the expensive oils he’d rubbed all over his skin, no doubt in preparation for this moment.

Patroclus turned his head, letting Brion nibble and suck at his neck, before letting out a blood-curdling scream.

Brion jolted back like he’d been struck across the face, nearly tumbling off the side of the bed in his haste to scramble away. “What is it?! By gods, what is it?!”

“I…I…I—"

The guards burst in, wielding spears and shields. Nine seconds. It took the guards nine seconds to get to the door. Not enough time for Brion to get away if he was unfortunate enough to be caught in one of the Black Widow’s traps.

“I…” Patroclus rubbed the back of his neck, his face burning hot. “I thought I saw a spider. I’m so sorry; I shouldn’t’ve overreacted like that.”

The guards lowered their weapons, miffed, and shuffled out of the room.

Brion cleared his throat, brushing himself off and seeming a touch humiliated.

“Sorry,” Patroclus apologized. “I thought it was on me.”

“It’s fine…it’s…” Brion shook his head, pulling his robes back up. “Perhaps it would be best if I took my money and went elsewhere.”

_ Thank the gods. I have a body to bury. _

“Understandable,” Patroclus conceded, trying to sound disappointed. Laying with people other than Achilles already made him sick to his stomach; at least now he didn’t have to deal with loathing of having sex with someone whom he hated.

Brion awkwardly excused himself, after much muttering and fumbling around for his things, and the moment the door closed behind him, Patroclus finally allowed himself to grin. He collapsed back onto the bed, staring up at the canopy and reveling in his triumph, before deciding that he would take care of the corpse after a nice nap.  

He first caught a glimpse of them in the garden.

Two people, infatuated. In love. Obsessed.

Helen and Paris made quite the couple, bringing each other gifts and exchanging sappy and romantic words at every chance they got, and Patroclus wanted nothing more to tie dumbbells to their feet and toss them into the Mediterranean to see if all of the air in their heads would make them float.

They represented all that Patroclus couldn’t have, all that he wished so desperately to return to but couldn’t.

Helen was particularly infuriating.

It was clear that she hadn’t been captured at all, but rather had escaped from King Melanus’ Spartan palace to be with her one true love. He could sympathize in a way, what with breaking out of a place for love, but so many people were dying because of this couple.

_ Achilles _ was fated to die because of this couple, and that gave Patroclus all the more reason to rip them apart piece by piece.

Perhaps he couldn’t  _ literally  _ rip them apart, which was what he’d prefer but wouldn’t possibly be able to pull off, but he could do it in other ways.

He set his eyes on Paris.

Helen was bright-eyed and terribly in love, but she was cunning. Certainly intelligent if she was able to sneak out of the Spartan palace all by herself. Patroclus couldn’t risk going after her, lest she figure out what was going on and arrange to have him executed or thrown out of the city.

Paris, however, was much stupider, as men usually are. He was book smart and good in battle, but when it came to street smarts and recognizing concealed danger, he was much like his father in the sense that both of them failed in that regard. Besides, with Paris it would be easier for Patroclus to work his magic, since he didn’t really swing Helen’s way much at all.

Paris and Helen hardly even knew Patroclus existed, though Helen had greeted him the first time he’d been in the palace and had commended his bravery. She’d been sympathetic, telling him to come to her if he ever needed to talk about anything, and though it was a sweet thing to do in retrospect, Patroclus had been so full of rage that first day that he’d only managed a terse nod.

Paris and Patroclus’ world collided, and quite literally, one fateful afternoon.

It seemed to be an accident, a pure happenstance, but Patroclus had been analyzing Paris’ schedule and had meticulously planned the whole scenario like a spider weaving its web in the place where it would catch the most flies.

Paris hadn’t been looking where he’d been going and had completely bowled Patroclus over, sending the huge stack of books in his arms scattering across the floor. 

“Good gods! I’m so sorry!” Paris exclaimed, scrambling to help pick all the books up. “I didn’t see you coming!”

“No, no, it’s my fault,” Patroclus insisted, flushing bright red. “I couldn’t see you around the stack I was carrying. You don’t have to apologize.”

“What even are these books, anyway?” Paris raised his eyebrows as he picked up a book on common magic, one he’d found in the depths of the palace library. “Magic?”

“It’s something to do,” Patroclus admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I learned a little in…in the Greek camp. From an oracle from Delphi. But I’ve never really brushed up on it.”

“Here, let me walk you back to your room. It’s the least I can do,” Paris stated when he and Patroclus had picked up all the books. “And let me carry some of those.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t let you carry these!” Patroclus huffed. “You’re a prince!”

“A warrior,” Paris corrected, plucking half of the stack from Patroclus’ arms. He seemed proud of himself, gloating almost, and Patroclus wondered why; many people were warriors. It was nothing new. “I’m not going to break if you give me something to carry. I’m not made of porcelain.”

Patroclus laughed and the two of them made polite conversation all the way to his room, where Paris helped him unload all of the books onto Patroclus’ bookshelf.

Paris sniffed, frowning at what must’ve been the lingering smell of corpse in the room, though Patroclus had disposed of it a while ago. He himself had gotten so used to it that he hardly noticed anymore.

“Sorry about the smell,” he apologized, quickly thinking up an excuse. “Someone put a dead rat under my bed and it stunk up the whole place.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Any idea who it was?”

“No, not really.”

“I see. Well, I should probably get going,” Paris declared, but he lingered at the threshold, turning back. “A battle will be starting soon.”

“Will you be on the field?”

“No, no. I’m an archer on the battlements.”

_ A coward. _

__ __ Aloud, Patroclus said, “How wonderful. I hear it takes many years of skill to master archery.”

“I could teach you, if you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t be good at it. I haven’t picked up a bow since I was six and my father wanted me to become the next Heracles.” A pause, and then, “Clearly that didn’t work out for me.”

“I think everything works out exactly like how it’s supposed to,” Paris murmured.

The ensuing silence was simmering, and Patroclus lowered his eyes, smiling bashfully to the floor. “I hope to see you around, then.”

“Me, too.” He made a move to leave, but stopped once more. “You’re Judas, right?”

“Yes.”

“For what it’s worth, Judas, you don’t need brute strength to be like Heracles.”

And with that, he was gone.

Patroclus allowed it to progress slowly, on its own time. He didn’t initiate any meetings after that; he could see it in Paris’ eyes that he was intrigued, allured. Patroclus had given him the spark, and now it was up to Paris to see if he could fan it into a blaze. He was like a fish on a loose line, completely unaware of the hook in its mouth, and Patroclus had to reel him in slowly lest he realize his folly and thrash away.

Paris would return on his own time, Patroclus knew that, so in the meantime, he turned his sights on Brion. His original target had bolted, packed up and left the city without a trace and leaving yet another seat at the advisor table cold and empty, so the next one on his list was probably the one he was the most excited to kill.

They tiptoed around each other for a while, Brion still very much shaken by the whole spider incident, but eventually things seemed to even out to normal. They greeted each other in the hallways and shared glances across the dinner table.

When Brion finally mustered up the courage to return to Patroclus’ room, he did so on a cold night.

Winter was in full swing now, and none of the nights had been as frigid as this one.

Patroclus’ windows, which were usually thrown open to let fresh air circulate and recover from the corpse incident, were barred shut, and Patroclus himself had wriggled beneath his blankets to ward off the chill. It didn’t usually get cold in Troy, what with the sea making for tepid summer and warm winters, but this was perhaps the coldest day he could possibly remember.

He was just hunkering down with a book on wards and protection circles when there came a knock on the door. Patroclus was lucky he didn’t react immediately, because Brion didn’t even wait for an answer before slipping inside.

He was dressed in thick robes that reminded Patroclus of what the northerners wore, and gems that were woven into the stitching winked at him whenever Brion moved.

“Good evening,” Brion murmured, as if he feared to interrupt the wind whistling outside.

“I didn’t invite you in,” Patroclus said, slipping out from under his blankets and propping himself up on his headboard. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I understand if you don’t want to see me.” Brion moved to take a seat at the foot of Patroclus’ bed, completely uninvited, and Patroclus closed his book and set it off to the side. “But I wanted to try to…make amends for last time.”

“There’s nothing for you to amend. It was my fault.”

“But it was my fault for not being civil about it after,” Brion pointed out. “Do you think we could try again?”

“It depends. Do you have the money?”

“I think you should do it for free. As an apology of sorts.”

Patroclus just short of smoked at the ears. He needed that money. He didn’t have his army or any weapons here, which meant he needed money for power; instead of threatening people with physical harm if they didn’t comply with his demands, he had to schmooze and bribe instead. Without money, he had no power.

Instead of blowing his top and yelling at Brion to get out, he nodded slowly. “All right. But I…”

“It’s okay.” Brion was beaming like the cat who’d caught the canary as he crawled up the bed.

Patroclus’ hesitance didn’t seem to be a deterrent at all, and he even went so far as to pry Patroclus’ legs open and invite himself into the crook of his hips.

“Listen, I—”

“Shh.” Brion pressed a finger to his lips. “Let me take care of you.”

Patroclus fought a grimace when he felt how hard Brion was beneath his robes, and the man’s hands groped up his legs and beneath his silks.

“I don’t feel comfortable doing this without the money,” Patroclus admitted, grabbing Brion’s hands to try to stop them, but Brion only shook his head.

“Too late now. We’ve already come to an agreement.”

“Well I want out,” Patroclus hissed, thrashing out of Brion’s grip when he tried to touch him in very unsolicited places.  

However, when Patroclus tried to get out of the bed, his legs tangled in the blankets and he tripped and fell, his head smacking on the ground and making stars explode behind his eyes.

Though he was far from wiped out entirely, he kept his eyes closed.

The Black Widow wasn’t clumsy enough to trip on accident.

“Judas?” Brion prompted hesitantly from the bed. “Judas!”

Patroclus said nothing, trying to keep the twist from his lips. He knew what would happen next. He was ready for it.

A draft from beneath his bed brought the familiar scent of blood and rotting flesh along with it.

“Shit,” Brion muttered, and Patroclus heard him shifting around before he felt feeble arms scooping him up and placing him back onto the bed. “Judas?”

Patroclus didn’t respond, making sure that his eyes didn’t move beneath his lids. To Brion, he was well and truly unconscious.

Unsurprisingly, Patroclus felt hands skimming over him reverently, pulling up his silks to bare his nudeness to the open air. A soft sigh of appreciation escaped Brion’s lips, and he trailed kisses up Patroclus’ legs and sucked bruises onto his thighs. 

There was a lot of shifting fabric and heavy breathing before Patroclus felt Brion press against him.

_ Dry?  _ Patroclus thought incredulously, unsure of whether he’d be able to keep up the act.  _ That’s low, Brion, even for you. _

__ __ After a few failed attempts, Brion spat on his hand and slicked himself up in an attempt to make the going easier, and Patroclus hoped Brion wouldn’t see the way that his jaw clenched. He just needed to hold out a little longer.

Brion planted his hands onto Patroclus’ wrists, pinning his arms to either side of his head, and fumbled his way into Patroclus’ body.

It hurt like a motherfucker, but Patroclus had felt worse. His memories of the White Room helped him remain silent and motionless, even when Brion had started moving in earnest.

It was time.

_ Rest in peace, motherfucker,  _ he thought.

His eyes flew open and he screamed.

Brion flailed back but didn’t release his hold on Patroclus’ wrists, too far gone in pleasure to really understand what was happening.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Patroclus shrieked.

“I…I…I…” Brion floundered, making a move to withdraw, but it was too late.

The guards burst through the door nine seconds later and caught sight of Patroclus, wide-eyed and afraid with a huge bruise blooming across his face and his wrists pinned to the bed.

“Help!” Patroclus cried, thrashing, and the guards lunged, dragging Brion off of Patroclus.

While one of them secured the blubbering man, the other wrapped a blanket around Patroclus to hide his nudeness. Tears were making their way down Patroclus’ face, but they were tears of triumph.

“Are you alright?” the guard asked, bright red.

Patroclus shook his head. He tried to speak, but it came out as a whistle of breath.

The guard turned, gesturing with his chin to the door. “Take that disgusting man away. Lock him up until the king decides what to do with him.”

He turned back to Patroclus, “Do you need anything?”

“I just want to be alone right now, if that’s alright with you. I’m sorry.”

“No worries. Would you like a guard posted outside of your door?”

“No, it’s alright.”

The guard nodded sadly, his eyes pitying, before both he, his partner, and a flustered Brion exited, closing the door behind them with a note of finality.

When he was sure their footsteps had faded, laughter bubbled up from Patroclus’ chest.

He asked the servants to draw him a hot bath, and they murmured amongst themselves. Word spread fast in the Trojan palace, and all of them kept stealing sympathetic glances his way, though he pretended to be too engrossed in his book to notice.

When a knock came at the door a while later, Patroclus had a pretty good idea of who it was. Granted, if his prediction was wrong it would be very embarrassing, but he was willing to take the chance.

“Come in,” he said.

Like he expected, Paris shuffled through the door, wringing his hands and keeping his gaze downcast. When he finally looked to Patroclus, he yelped and clapped his hands over his eyes.

“Why’d you let me come in?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not shy.” After a long pause, Patroclus snapped, “You don’t have to cover your eyes.”

Paris reluctantly complied, his eyes immediately drawn to the sight of Patroclus lounging in a frothing bathtub, a glass of wine in hand and a near-empty bottle off to the side.

“It appears you’re busy. Perhaps I should come back later?”

“This is how I relax,” Patroclus said. “I’m not doing anything of importance.”

“Alone time is important.”

Patroclus chuckled softly. “Glad I know someone here thinks on my wavelength. But I’m serious, I’m not busy. Is there anything you need?”

“I was just checking in to make sure you’re okay,” Paris murmured, pulling up a chair to sit a safe distance away from the tub. “I heard about…what happened.”

“Everyone’s heard,” Patroclus sighed dejectedly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I don’t want your pity.”

The same words he’d said to Achilles in Elysium all those years ago. The thought of his beloved made him so incredibly lonely that he feared he would throw up right there and then, but he was on the clock now that Paris was in the room. There was no time for grief.

Paris gestured to his face. “Did Brion do that to you?”

Patroclus nodded, his fingers skimming idly over the ugly green-and-blue monstrosity that had flourished on his skin following his collision with the floor. “But it’s alright, I’ve had worse wounds than a bruise.”

“I can imagine,” Paris murmured, his eyes sliding over the scars on Patroclus’ face. “Who gave you those?”

“Achilles,” Patroclus lied, his lip trembling when he uttered his beloved’s name aloud for the first time since he’d made his statement to King Priam. “He was drunk and angry one night when he made advances, and I was reluctant and fearful. My reluctance infuriated him.”

“What a monster,” Paris hissed, his lips curling and his eyes burning with hate. “All animals, those Greeks. I’m so glad I was able to rescue you and Helen from them.”

“Of course.”

Paris seemed to be getting braver, because he scooted his chair closer. “Do you want to talk about it? I know how hard it can be to keep everything bottled up inside.”

“What is there to talk about?” Patroclus whispered. “About being forced to stay in a tent as a plaything? About sleeping in sheets drenched in my own fucking blood?”

He shook his head violently, as if to dislodge the bad memories. “I’m sorry. I should be kinder. You’re only trying to help.”

“Don’t apologize. I could never possibly understand what you’re going through, but I want to try. If understanding helps you, then I’ll try my damn hardest to understand.”

Patroclus met his gaze for the first time, smiling faintly. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. Mind if I get out of the bath and get dressed?”

“Not at all.”

Paris turned his back politely when Patroclus rose, water streaming down his body as he stepped out of the tub and dried himself off with a plush towel. Though Paris seemed dead-set on being respectful, Patroclus could see the glances that he stole at Patroclus’ body while his back was to him.

“Alright, you can turn around,” Patroclus said when his silks settled gently on his shoulders.

Paris did so, and the two of them talked long into the night, hushing words to one another even as the stars rose up overhead like water droplets spilled across the night sky.

Patroclus learned that Paris enjoyed winter despite the chill and had a soft spot for one of his hunting dogs whom he’d originally pulled off the streets as a stray. In turn, Patroclus told him that he’d always wanted to learn how to wield a spear and was genuinely fascinated by the Black Widow’s horses.

“Do you want to try something?” Patroclus asked after a while, and Paris balked.

“Try what?” he said slowly.

Patroclus motioned for him to stay put as he crouched down and rifled around beneath his bed, making sure Paris got a good view of his ass.

While scrabbling under his bed, he accidently kicked a section of the carpet up.

“Is there something painted on the floor beneath your carpet?” Paris seemed puzzled when he saw a line of crusted red peeking out from under the ornate rug.

“Not that I know of,” Patroclus replied, a little too quickly, kicking the carpet back into place as he dragged a bottle out of the depths of the clutter.

“What’s that?” Paris asked, all thoughts of the painting gone.

“Something special,” Patroclus assured, taking back his seat and placing the unlabeled bottle down onto the table between the two of them. “It helps you see the truth.”

“Magic?” Paris breathed.

Patroclus nodded, rising to fetch them both wine glasses. “I worked on it for a while, scoured every book imaginable to see if there’d be something I could brew to open up my eyes to the possibilities of the world. This is the fruit of my labor.”

“What’s it called?”

“The Sight. Would you like to try it? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I…I’d like to try. Does it help you see into the future?”

“No. It just…gives you a feeling. Points you in the right direction. You won’t really know what you’ve learned, but you’ll feel it,” Patroclus exclaimed, pouring a glass for the both of them. “For instance, this potion helped me find a way to escape. I learned that there was one horse that wasn’t being monitored that day, so I took my first chance and stole it, even if it meant that I’d get killed in the process.”

“Wow. That’s incredible.”

Paris swirled the red concoction around in his glass warily. Its consistency was only slightly thicker than wine, and the untrained eye would probably think it to be such.

Paris raised his glass, “To the Sight.”

Patroclus grinned, raising his own, “To the Sight.”

They clinked glasses and Paris took a huge swig. Patroclus pretended to do the same, but in reality his lips were tightly sealed and not a drop passed his lips, though it did make them tingle.

Paris coughed. “It’s strong.”

“Very. Are you alright?”

Paris looked up and his eyes widened when they rested upon Patroclus’ face. “I…”

Patroclus’ brows knit as he rose to press his hand against Paris’ forehead to check his temperature. “Are you okay? Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve—”

“No, no, everything is fine. I feel great,” Paris whispered. His eyes wouldn’t leave Patroclus.

He stared for a second too long before leaping to his feet, sweat beading on his forehead. “I have to go.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve figured something out.”

“Oh. Alright. Have fun. Goodnight.”

Paris only nodded tersely and whisked out of the room without another word.

A grin twisted Patroclus’ lips as the door closed behind him. The Sight his ass. A potion called the Sight didn’t even exist; Patroclus had to commend himself for making it up on the spot.

What Paris had assumed was a clairvoyant mixture was in reality an incredibly potent love potion, one that caused the drinker to fall madly in love with the first person they laid eyes on. Now, had someone randomly stormed in at that exact moment and Paris had seen them first, Patroclus would’ve been screwed, but everything had gone exactly according to plan.

Helen and Paris were officially torn apart. Not in the way Patroclus would’ve preferred, but they were metaphorically torn apart.

Helen, heartbroken over how her one true love became suddenly smitten by an ex-whore, would leave Troy and return to Melanus, and the war would be over because of it. Patroclus could return to Achilles, leaving poor Paris in the dust, and the two of them could have a winter home on Crete and live happily ever after.

A smidgeon of the potion must’ve seeped through his lips, because for a moment he felt sorry for Paris, a mere pawn in a vast game of chess whose emotions were being toyed with like an instrument’s strings being plucked, but the feeling was gone almost as soon as it had come.

Paris was nothing to Patroclus, a stepping stone to get Helen back where she belonged and end the Trojan war, and if Patroclus returning to Achilles meant Paris killing himself because of a broken heart, then so be it.

It was a small price to pay for love.

Their relationship started slow. An urgent, needy thing.

Patroclus would be in the stables grooming Arachne or wandering around the gardens when suddenly Paris would swoop in and offer up his company. Despite how he and Helen had been joined at the hip beforehand, the two seemed much more distant now; it wasn’t as often that Patroclus caught them exchanging heated kisses or making doe eyes at one another.

Paris and Patroclus would talk, perhaps eat lunch or dinner, and then would go their separate ways. Tension always sizzled between them like lightning, but Patroclus would always be the one to turn away, forcing Paris to pine after him and wander further from Helen’s open arms.

“You’re very handsome,” Paris let slip one day while he and Patroclus sat side-by-side on the paddock fence, watching the horses graze.

Patroclus feigned surprise. “Why…thank you.”

Paris blinked, flushing. “I apologize.”

“What for?”

“Such a compliment seems…inappropriate.”

“Just don’t tell Helen and you’ll be alright,” Patroclus joked, nudging his arm lightly.

Paris swallowed hard and looked away, and Patroclus wasn’t at all surprised when he excused himself not long after. Arachne wandered over, nuzzling Patroclus with her barrel-sized head and nearly toppling him from his perch, and Patroclus ran his hand down her face.

“He’s already caught in the web,” he murmured to her, his fingers ghosting over where Arachne’s red hourglass mark had long since been washed away. “Now all we have to do is wrap him up.”

“Judas?”

Patroclus jerked, whirling to find Helen standing a ways away. She looked stunning in the waning light of dusk, the sunset making her hair turned to strands of woven gold, and she seemed ill at ease, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

She approached hesitantly at first but slowly seemed to gain confidence, tilting her chin up as she finally reached the fence Patroclus was sitting on.

“You just missed Paris. He went that way,” Patroclus said, pointing in the direction Paris had gone and fully expecting Helen to thank him and head off.

“Actually, I came here to speak with you.” She vaulted up onto the fence to sit beside Patroclus, and his hand faltered where he was still stroking Arachne’s nose. 

Helen never talked to him. What did she know that was prompting conversation now?

“About what?” Patroclus kept his voice measured, casting a sidelong glance Helen’s way and noticing how she seemed unnerved by Arachne’s towering height.

She was very much out-of-place in the Trojan stables—had almost been put to death had Patroclus not intervened—and stood out like a sore thumb against the dainty, prancing stallions that the Trojans usually preferred. She was just as much of an outcast as Patroclus was in this place, and probably wanted to return back to the Greeks and her herd.

Helen looked around, worrying at her lip, before growling, “Stay away from Paris.”

“Pardon?”

“He seems to be infatuated with you all of a sudden. He hardly speaks to me anymore, and when he does, it’s about you. I want you to stay away.”

“I mean no disrespect, but I haven’t been trying to make a move on your betrothed, if that’s what you’re thinking.” The lie rolled so easily off of his tongue that he had to give himself a pat on the back.

“You’re always with him.”

“He’s the one who comes to me.”

“So if you’re really adamant about not wanting to be romantically involved with him, you’ll tell him to stop coming to you.”

“But we have such a wonderful friendship.” Patroclus lowered his head, brushing the hair out of Arachne’s face. “No one else in this city will hold a conversation with me, much less be my friend. Paris is all I have.”

Helen’s lips twitched, but that was the only sign of her resolve wavering. “I’m going to be honest, Judas. I have a bad feeling about you. I think your influence is less than virtuous.”

“Everyone else seems to believe so, too,” Patroclus admitted, chuckling sadly to himself. “I’m a foreigner who used to help the side you’re fighting against, albeit in a much more indirect way than they’d imagine. The odds were stacked against me from the beginning. Don’t worry, I don’t mind.”

Helen seemed taken aback, like she’d been counting on Patroclus to be offended so she could prove her point. She floundered for words before brusquely repeating, “Tell him to stop coming to you.”

And with that, she left, whisking away back toward the Trojan palace.

“She reminds me of Briseis, in a way,” Patroclus sighed to Arachne, patting her cheek. “For a moment there, I wished we weren’t enemies.”

Arachne snorted.

“I know, I know. Quite foolish of me.”

For a while, Patroclus considered obeying Helen’s commands. It would only make Paris want him even more and pry his and Helen’s relationship apart even further, but he wasn’t so cruel as to instigate that. Besides, letting them destroy their own relationship would take a long time, and he was growing quite tired and lonely in Troy.

He wanted nothing more than to return to Achilles so he could be himself again. No more lies, no more trickery.

He had to make sure that his eagerness to return didn’t make him sloppy, but there was no harm in trying to speed up the process; he was done playing games and dancing around the solution.

So, the next time Paris came to Patroclus’ chambers, Patroclus pretended to cry.

“Good gods, what’s the matter?!” Paris demanded when Patroclus answered his door with red-rimmed eyes and cheeks that glistened with tear tracks.

He shouldered his way inside, and Patroclus shuffled out of his way miserably.

“Helen…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind, you should leave.”

“What for? What about Helen?” Paris prompted, making no move to leave as he folded his arms over his chest.

“It’s nothing. Please go.”

“No. Tell me what happened.”

“I told you it was nothing.”

Paris bowed his head, planting his hands on Patroclus’ shoulders and locking eyes with him. “Judas. You must tell me what’s wrong. That’s an order.”

“I…I stubbed my toe and it hurt an immense amount,” Patroclus tried weakly.

“Don’t lie.”

Patroclus’ shoulders sagged, and he shrugged Paris’ hands off, turning his back to him. “Helen told me that she doesn’t want me to see you anymore. She told me to send you away the next time I saw you.”

He couldn’t see Paris from behind him, but he could hear his sharp intake of breath.

Patroclus continued, “She didn’t say so, but I know she suspects our feelings for each other are…more than platonic.”

A heavy exhale and the sound of shuffling feet.

There was a long, drawn-out moment of charged silence.

“I don’t want to be with Helen anymore.”

The confession sounded like a release, like water bursting through a dam.

Patroclus whirled on Paris. “What do you mean you don’t want to be with Helen anymore? You two are soulmates! You’ve said so yourself.”

“Not anymore, apparently.” His voice was bitter. “I have no idea why, but…I have eyes for another.”

Patroclus gasped, taking a few steps back. “Don’t tell me…”

Paris nodded dejectedly, his hands balling into fists. “I learned the moment you shared the Sight with me. I suppose I was afraid to admit it all along. As soon as I learned, I became obsessed. I couldn’t…I can’t…stop thinking about you.”

“Paris, I’m sorry for sharing the Sight—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Paris hissed. “I feel…freer somehow. Like a burden has been lifted off of my shoulders. I think…”

Patroclus’ brows drew up. “You think…?”

“I think I might send Helen back to the Greeks. I don’t want any more of my people dying for a woman I no longer love.”

“But you’ve worked so hard for so many years!” Patroclus cried. His elation was easily made to seem like anger. “You can’t give her back now, not after all they’ve done!”

“I’m tired, Judas. We’re all tired. Nobles are dropping like flies and murdering each other left and right. I’ve heard rumors of the Greeks growing weary of the struggle. We’re all ready for this war to end.”

“I strongly disagree, but it’s not my decision to make,” Patroclus sighed.

“You’re so headstrong,” Paris whispered, stepping into his personal space. “You’re always standing up for what’s right, even if it’s not the easy way out.”

Patroclus smiled softly, looking down and wringing his hands.

Paris took Patroclus’ chin gently in hand and tilted it up so their eyes could meet. “Is there…is there any way that my feelings are somehow…reciprocated?”

“Perhaps,” was the sly response, and Paris sighed in relief.

Patroclus would’ve drawn away, would’ve made Paris crawl back to him like a dog eager for scraps, but Paris was right. Everyone was tired of this war, of this game. It was the reason why Patroclus took that moment to grab Paris’ face and bring their lips together.

Paris gasped, his arms immediately snaking around Patroclus’ waist and pulling him close. If Patroclus closed his eyes, he could pretend it was Achilles’ lips on his and not the lips of a man who’d helped tear his life apart.

He bared his teeth into the kiss, their tongues tangling, and Paris winced as Patroclus’ fingers tugged a bit too tightly on his hair.

“Sorry,” Patroclus breathed into Paris’ mouth, “I fear I’m more eager for this than I should be.”

“Stop apologizing,” Paris growled. “You’ve never done anything wrong.”

_ Yeah, right,  _ Patroclus thought, unable to restrain his chuckle.  _ I’d gladly slit open your throat and drink from the blood spout if it meant I could get out of here. _

__ __ Dusk had settled over Troy like a dusting of snow, the sky painted in purple and navy as the sun slid past the horizon, and a heavy chill had set in, making Paris seem like a pillar of flame compared to the nipping cold of the air.

“Why do you leave the windows open?” Paris prompted, pulling away from the kiss to close them and draw the curtains. “You’ll catch your death if you’re not careful, especially in those meager silks you wear!”

“My bed warms me up just fine. Especially when there’s someone else inside of it.”

Paris laughed, allowing Patroclus to drag him onto the mattress and sink among the lavish pillows, completely entangled in one another.  

“You know, Helen and I have never kissed like this,” Paris panted, and Patroclus used his open-mouthed breaths as an opportunity to lick into his mouth and run his tongue over Paris’ teeth, making him shiver.

“Well, I’m not Helen,” was the breathless retort.

Patroclus tugged at Paris’ robes, still not pulling away from the kiss, and before long Paris seemed to take the hint and struggled out of his clothing. Patroclus used that time to shed his own garments, and by the time they descended upon one another once more, they were laid bare.

“Patroclus, you are something else,” Paris gasped as Patroclus brought their hips together, rutting against him and watching his face light up with pleasure. “You’re magnificent.”

His words struck a chord in Patroclus, and when he drew away to look into Paris’ eyes and saw the devotion shining back at him, he felt the slightest twinge in his chest.

_ Guilt,  _ his heart reminded him.  _ You’re feeling guilty. _

__ __ No longer was Patroclus the shining spearhead razing the brothels and freeing the slaves trapped within their walls; he was the monster. Paris had just been trying to be with the woman he’d loved when the Trojan war had begun; he was just a soldier. He’d never raped or pillaged, was just a lover, more fit for passion than for war.

And Patroclus was manipulating him, taking advantage of the empathy that so few people in the world possessed. It was a cruel thing.

He wanted to justify it. He wanted to convince himself that the Greeks were the heroes and the Trojans were the villains, and that by puppeteering Paris it would help the heroes win. But when it came down to it, there were no heroes or villains in this war.

No good guys or bad guys.

No right or wrong.

They were all fools, Greeks and Trojans alike.

The Trojans should’ve never taken in Helen, and the Greeks should’ve never gone to war over it.

He didn’t realize he was misty-eyed until Paris swabbed his thumb under Patroclus’ eye to wipe away the beginnings of tears.

“I know you don’t think you’re magnificent,” Paris murmured. “After all, you did learn these skills from a terrible situation. But I’m hoping that my belief in you will help your own belief in yourself.”

“I’m trying. Thank you for helping me try,” Patroclus murmured, tracing Paris’ lips with his finger and trying to shove down the sick feeling he felt.

He wanted Achilles. He just wanted this to be over. “I will try to love myself for you.”

“I’m honored,” Paris said. It wasn’t in the slightest bit humorous. He meant it. “Are you still in the mood or…?”

“Of course,” Patroclus interrupted.

Sex was easy. Sex was a good way to take his mind off of the twisted morality of the whole situation. His part was easier to play when he didn’t have to think about it.

Patroclus threw his leg over Paris’ waist, biting his lip as he pressed their hips together once more. “Have you ever been with a man before?”

Paris shook his head, his eyes wide. It reminded Patroclus of Achilles in a way, when he’d first been introduced to Patroclus, and that bitterness helped wash his guilt away as he regarded the man who was most definitely not his beloved.

“Well, it’s a lot like being with a woman except with a different hole.” Patroclus leaned over to snatch a bottle of oil from out of his drawer. “Do you think you can control yourself while I prepare myself?”

“Do you think you could turn around, so I can see?” Paris asked, and Patroclus made a spectacle of turning himself around to give Paris the front-row seat he’d requested.  

Reverent hands cupped Patroclus’ ass, kneading it gently, and Patroclus smirked to himself. “You like what you see?”

“Your ass is better than Helen’s,” Paris admitted.

“Stop talking about Helen,” Patroclus growled, unable to keep the bite out of his words, and Paris fell silent behind him as Patroclus slicked up three fingers and pushed the first inside of himself.

He made sure to put on quite the show for Paris, gasping and whimpering as he rocked back and forth to stretch himself out, adding more fingers as he went. To Paris, it must’ve sounded like Patroclus was having the time of his life, but any whore—or anyone who liked men, for that matter—would be able to see right through it.

In reality, he was fighting a battle inside of himself. He tried zeroing in on the pleasure, to have the rest of the world melt away, but his mind was having a Trojan war of its own; one half pulled Patroclus toward Achilles and doing whatever was necessary to get back to him, while the other took pity on Paris and cried out for there to be another way.

Paris planted a soft kiss on Patroclus’ tailbone, murmuring compliments against his skin, and Patroclus’ breathing turned ragged as he added a second finger, and eventually a third.

By the time he was ready, both of them were raring to go; the once cold air now seemed too hot, making Patroclus feel like he was trapped inside of his own skin. While Paris’ eagerness came from desire, Patroclus’ eagerness came from impatience.

He wanted it all to be said and done so Paris could send Helen away in the morning and Patroclus could go running back to Achilles and try to put Troy behind him. Patroclus had murdered countless people in gruesome ways, but for some reason his seduction of Paris was the thing that was making him second-guess himself.

“Come here,” Paris said, dragging Patroclus down into the sheets and rolling over so that Patroclus was on his back and Paris was slotted beneath his legs. “Is this alright?”

Patroclus nodded, licking his lips before leaning up and rejoining their mouths. Paris was a bit inexperienced, fumbling a bit before gliding into Patroclus’ body in one swift movement.

The two of them groaned in unison, and Patroclus leaned back with a sigh as Paris set a nice, easy pace. It was almost tender, in a way; a joining of two lovers instead of a rough fuck to sate their lust for one another.

Paris’ hands skated all over Patroclus’ body, his fingers tracing swirling designs onto his skin as he mapped out the planes of his chest and the scars that marred it.

“Did Achilles give you these, too?” Paris growled, his lips moving against Patroclus’ own.

“Most of them.” He gasped softly, clutching Paris’ shoulders and losing himself in the feeling. “Others are from clients of the brothel he took me from.”

“I will never do such a thing to you.” Paris’ teeth grazed Patroclus’ shoulder. “Unless love bites count?”

Patroclus’ laugh was cut off by a soft moan as Paris shifted the angle of his hips. “Ah, right there. Harder, please.”

Paris obeyed, and the two of them groaned in unison at how good the new pace felt. Patroclus hadn’t had this good of a lay since Achilles; all of the other people he’d seduced in Troy had been quick about it, making it seem like a licentious thing that should be enjoyed in the short time it lasted. Paris, however, was making it more about the two of them than about the pleasure they were giving each other.

Patroclus arched up, his eyelids fluttering as he held Paris close and buried his face into his shoulder. Paris’ breath was hot against his ear as he whispered filthy praise and fond compliments. His breath came out short and quick, and pretty soon he couldn’t find the air to speak, his words dissolving into hot panting.

“I’m close,” Paris murmured.

“Me, too.”

Paris’ hips drove into Patroclus faster, as if by their own accord, and the headboard cracked against the wall as the two of them barreled toward release. Patroclus screwed his eyes shut and reminded himself that Paris was the enemy, that the pleasure and the love he was being offered was the product of a twisted scheme Patroclus had cooked up himself.

He was so desperate to be loved.

He missed Achilles so dearly that he was scrambling for something to replace the hole he’d left in his heart. Paris could be the missing piece, but he wouldn’t fit quite right, and when he finally came with a shudder, Patroclus had to try as hard as he could to follow in suit, as to not reveal how wretched he felt.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, Paris spooning up behind Patroclus and holding him as though he would never let go. Patroclus hoped with all of his might that Paris would stay for a moment before leaving, but he remained, showering Patroclus with adoring kisses and tender affection.

Patroclus pulled the sheets up over their shoulders to ward off the cold air, and with Paris warming him up and holding him so lovingly, it wasn’t hard to imagine he was back in his and Achilles’ tent at the Greek camp.

He was lying on his pallet with Achilles behind him, and if he opened his eyes, he would see the familiar array of weapons and war prizes bathed in the warm light of the candles. He would see the walls of the tent fluttering in the breeze wafting off of the ocean, and hear the rumbling voices of the soldiers off in the distance having a late-night drink.

With that fantasy in mind and with his eyes firmly shut, it didn’t take long for Patroclus to drift off into a slumber filled with images of Achilles.

He awoke much later, when Paris gently extracted himself from behind Patroclus and left him feeling cold.

“I have to go,” Paris whispered against Patroclus’ skin, rising up from the bedsheets and dressing himself. “I need to be in my room by sunrise.”

His body was outlined in moonlight as he dressed himself in front of the windows, the fabric of his robes sliding over his shoulders and concealing his chiseled body beneath its confines. The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room, and Patroclus rolled over onto his stomach to watch Paris.

“Don’t be gone for long,” Patroclus murmured.

“I won’t.”

Paris planted a kiss on Patroclus’ forehead, smoothing over his cheek with his thumb, and hesitated for a few moments before slipping out of the room silently.

Patroclus smothered his chuckle against the pillow and tugged the blankets more tightly over himself, snuggling into the remnants of Paris’ body heat; once he wasn’t staring the man he was swindling in the face, his guilt eased monumentally, replaced with the familiar feeling of smug triumph. The war would be over by the end of the week. He could go back home, back to Achilles.

That beautiful thought made his eyes droop, his mind wandering to fantasies of the adventures he and Achilles would have as they spent the rest of their lives together as one. He imagined the house on Crete, built up with their own hands to have a view of the shore, and imagined the look on his father’s face when the word got out that his son was a war hero.

He took delight in watching his father fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness only to be rebuffed by a son who was now above him, and cherished the feeling of sitting in the sand next to his beloved, watching the waves crash and tumble.

He was just about to drift off when the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. He frowned but didn’t open his eyes, rubbing his skin to feel the goosebumps that had risen there. It felt like something was in the room with him, something sinister.

Patroclus lunged for the knife he kept beneath his mattress, his head snapping up to regard a shadow that now stood at the foot of his bed.

The crickets outside had gone silent, the breeze strangled into an eerie hush, and the air felt deathly still, like the room was holding its breath. All of the candles had gone out.

“Who are you?” Patroclus hissed, sitting up straighter and paying no mind to his current nudeness. “How did you get in here?”

The shadow shifted, the head lifting up to reveal a blond man with beady black eyes, like his pupil had swallowed up the whites. One half of his face was bathed in the light of the moon, while the other was plunged into shadow.

“You know my name.”

The man’s words felt like someone had wedged ice shards between Patroclus’ vertebrae, and he shivered. In that moment, he knew who this man was.

“Apollo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! It takes a very, very, very long time to write these long chapters and edit them to make sure they're perfect! 
> 
> I hope you guys like it, leave a comment + kudos if you do!


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